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i 










FRANK R. STOCKTON 

Volume XXIII 

A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 



















THE NOVELS AND STORIES OF 
FRANK R. STOCKTON 

A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 

WITH A MEMORIAL SKETCH OF MR. STOCKTON 
AND A BIBLIOGRAPHY OF HIS WORKS 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
1904 




?Z3 



LIBRARY of G0N6RESS 
Two Gooies Received 


MAY 21 1904 


0*Dyris:ht Entry 

fn. a+i'i f t 1 4 <*f- 

CLASS A XXo. No. 

84 tl £> 

'copy a 


Copyright, 1900, by Harper & Brothers 
Copyright, 1904, by Charles Scribner’s Sons 


THE DEVINNE PRESS 





A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


CHAPTER PAGE 

i The Doctor’s Daughter ... 3 

ii A Bad Twist. 9 

hi The Duke’s Dressing-gowk . .19 

iv A Bit of Advice .... 38 

v The Lady and the Cavalier . . 47 

vi The Holly Sprig Inn ... 54 

vii Mrs. Chester is Troubled ... 62 

viii Orso.76 

ix A Runaway.85 

x The Larramie Family ... 95 

xi The Three McKennas. . . .105 

xii Back to the Holly Sprig . . 115 

xiii A Man with a Letter . . . 123 

xiv Miss Edith is Disappointed . . 135 

xv Miss Willoughby.145 

xvi An Icicle.152 

xvii A Forecaster of Human Probabili¬ 
ties .160 

xviii Repentance Avails Kot . . . 171 

xix Beauty, Purity, and Peace . .175 

xx Back from Cathay .... 180 


A Memorial Sketch of Mr. Stockton, By 

Marian E. Stockton.189 

A Bibliographical List of the Writings 
of Mr. Stockton.209 


v 

































0 



% 








A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 




A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


CHAPTER I 

THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER 

I T was a beautiful summer morning when slowly I 
wheeled my way along the principal street of the 
village of Walford. A little valise was strapped in 
front of my bicycle 5 my coat, rolled into a small 
compass, was securely tied under the seat, and I was 
starting out to spend my vacation. 

I was the teacher of the village school, which use¬ 
ful institution had been closed for the season the day 
before, much to the gratification of pedagogue and 
scholars. This position was not at all the summit of 
my youthful ambition,* in fact, I had been very 
much disappointed when I found myself obliged to 
accept it: but when I left college my financial con¬ 
dition made it desirable for me to do something to 
support myself while engaged in some of the studies 
preparatory to a professional career, 
r I have never considered myself a sentimental per¬ 
son, but I must admit that I did not feel very happy 
that morning, and this state of mind was occasioned 
entirely by the feeling that there was no one who 
seemed to be in the least sorry that I was going 
away. My boys were so delighted to give up their 
studies that they were entirely satisfied to give up 
3 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


their teacher, and I am sure that my vacation would 
have been a very long one if they had had the order¬ 
ing of it. My landlady might have been pleased to 
have me stay, but if I had agreed to pay my board 
during my absence I do not doubt that my empty 
room would have occasioned her no pangs of regret. 
I had friends in the village, but as they knew it was 
a matter of course that I should go away during the 
vacation, they seemed to be perfectly reconciled to 
the fact. 

As I passed a small house which was the abode of 
my laundress, my mental depression was increased by 
the action of her oldest son. This little fellow, prob¬ 
ably five years of age, and the condition of whose 
countenance indicated that his mother’s art was 
seldom exercised upon it, was playing on the side¬ 
walk with his sister, somewhat younger and much 
dirtier. 

As I passed the little chap he looked up and in a 
sharp, clear voice he cried : u Good-by ! Come back 
soon ! ” These words cut into my soul. Was it pos¬ 
sible that this little ragamuffin was the only one in 
that village who was sorry to see me depart and who 
desired my return? And the acuteness of this cut 
was not decreased by the remembrance that on 
several occasions when he had accompanied his 
mother to my lodging I had given him small coins. 

I was beginning to move more rapidly along the 
little path, well worn by many rubber tires, which 
edged the broad roadway, when I perceived the 
doctor’s daughter standing at the gate of her father’s 
front yard. As I knew her very well, and she hap¬ 
pened to be standing there and looking in my direc- 
4 


THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER 


tion, I felt that it would be the proper thing for me 
to stop and speak to her, and so I dismounted and 
proceeded to roll my bicycle up to the gate. 

As the doctor’s daughter stood looking over the 
gate, her hands clasped the tops of the two central 
pickets. 

“ Good morning,” said she. “ I suppose, from your 
carrying baggage, that you are starting off for your 
vacation. How far do you expect to go on your 
wheel, and do you travel alone ?” 

11 My only plan,” I answered, “ is to ride over the 
hills and far away ! How far I really do not know ; 
and I shall be alone except for this good com¬ 
panion.” And as I said this I patted the handle-bar 
of my bicycle. 

u Your wheel does seem to be a sort of a com¬ 
panion,” she said; u not so good as a horse, but bet¬ 
ter than nothing. I should think, travelling all by 
yourself in this way, you would have quite a friendly 
feeling for it. Did you ever think of giving it a 
name ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said I. “ I have named it. I call it a 
1 Bicycle of Cathay.’ ” 

u Is there any sense in such a name ? ” she asked. 
“ It is like part of a quotation from Tennyson, isn’t 
it f I forget the first of it.” 

“ You are right,” I said. “ ‘ Better fifty years of 
Europe than a cycle of Cathay.’ I cannot tell you 
exactly why, but that seems to suggest a good name 
for a bicycle.” 

11 But your machine has two wheels,” said she. 
“ Therefore you ought to say, c Better one hundred 
years of Europe than two cycles of Cathay.’” 

5 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“ I bow to custom,” said I. “ Every one speaks 
of a bicycle as a wheel, and I shall not introduce the 
plural into the name of my good steed.” 

“ And you don’t know where your Cathay is to 
be?” she asked. 

I smiled and shook my head. “ No,” I answered, 
“ but I hope my cycle will carry me safely through 
it.” 

The doctor’s daughter looked past me across the 
road. “ I wish I were a man,” said she, “ and could 
go off as I pleased, as you do ! It must be delight¬ 
fully independent.” 

I was about to remark that too much independ¬ 
ence is not altogether delightful, but she suddenly 
spoke: 

“ You carry very little with you for a long jour¬ 
ney,” and as she said this she grasped the pickets of 
the gate more tightly. I could see the contraction 
of the muscles of her white hands. It seemed as if 
she were restraining something. 

“Oh, this isn’t all my baggage,” I replied. “I 
sent on a large bag to Waterton. I suppose I shall 
be there in a couple of days, and then I shall for¬ 
ward the bag to some other place.” 

“I do not suppose you have packed up any medi¬ 
cine among your other things?” she asked. “You 
don’t look as if you very often needed medicine.” 

I laughed as I replied that in the course of my life 
I had taken but little. 

“But if your cycle starts off rolling early in the 
morning,” she said, “or keeps on late in the evening, 
you ought to be able to defend yourself against 
malaria. I do not know what sort of a country 
6 



THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER 


Cathay may be, but I should not be a bit surprised 
if you found it full of mists and morning vapors. 
Malaria has a fancy for strong people, you know. 
Just wait here a minute, please,” and with that she 
turned and ran into the house. 

I had liked the doctor’s daughter ever since I had 
begun to know her, although at first I had found it a 
little hard to become acquainted with her. 

She was the treasurer of the literary society of the 
village, and ;I was its secretary. We had to work 
together sometimes, and I found her a very straight¬ 
forward girl in her accounts and in every other way. 

In about a minute she returned, carrying a little 
pasteboard box. 

“Here are some one-grain quinine capsules,” she 
said. “They have no taste, and I am quite sure that 
if you get into a low country it would be a good 
thing for you to take at least one of them every 
morning. People may have given you all sorts of 
things for your journey, but I do not believe any one 
has given you this.” And she handed me the box 
over the top of the gate. 

I did not say that her practical little present was 
the only thing that anybody had given me, but I 
thanked her very heartily, and assured her that I 
would take one every time I thought I needed it. 
Then, as it seemed proper to do so, I straightened up 
my bicycle as if I would mount it. Again her fingers 
clutched the top of the two palings. 

“When father comes home,” she said, “he will be 
sorry to find that he had not a chance to bid you 
good-by. And, by the way,” she added quickly, “you 
know there will be one more meeting of the society. 

7 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


Did you write out any minutes for the last evening, 
and would you like me to read them for you? ” 

“Upon my word! ” I exclaimed. “I have for¬ 
gotten all about it. I made some rough notes, but I 
have written nothing.’ 7 

“Well, it doesn’t matter in the least,” said she, 
quickly. “I remember everything that happened, 
and I will write the minutes and read them for you j 
that is, if you want me to.” 

I assured her that nothing would please me better, 
and we talked a little about the minutes, after which 
I thought I ought not to keep her standing at the 
gate any longer. So I took leave of her, and we 
shook hands over the gate. This was the first time I 
had ever shaken hands with the doctor’s daughter, 
for she was a reserved girl, and hitherto I had 
merely bowed to her. 

As I sped away down the street and out into the 
open country my heart was a good deal lighter than 
it had been when I began my journey. It was cer¬ 
tainly pleasant to leave that village, which had been 
my home for the greater part of a year, without the 
feeling that there was no one in it who cared for me, 
even to the extent of a little box of quinine capsules. 


8 


CHAPTEB II 


A BAD TWIST 

It was about the middle of the afternoon that I 
found myself bowling along a smooth highway, bor¬ 
dered by trees and stretching itself almost upon a 
level far away into the distance. Had I been a 
scorcher, here would have been a chance to do a lit¬ 
tle record-breaking, for I was a powerful and prac¬ 
tised wheelman. But I had no desire to be extrava¬ 
gant with my energies, and so contented myself with 
rolling steadily on at a speed moderate enough to 
allow me to observe the country I was passing 
through. 

There were not many people on the road, but at 
some distance ahead of me I saw a woman on a 
wheel. She was not going rapidly, and I was gain¬ 
ing on her. Suddenly, with no reason whatever that 
I could see, her machine gave a twist, and, although 
she put out her foot to save herself, she fell to the 
ground. Instantly I pushed forward to assist her, 
but before I could reach her she was on her feet. 
She made a step toward her bicycle, which lay in 
the middle of the road, and then she stopped and 
stood still. I saw that she was hurt, but I could not 
help a sort of inward smile. “It is the old way of 
9 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


the world/’ I thought. “Would the Fates have 
made that young woman fall from her bicycle if 
there had been two men coming along on their 
wheels ? ” 

As I jumped from my machine and approached her 
she turned her head and looked at me. She was a 
pale girl, and her face was troubled. When I asked 
her if she had hurt herself, she spoke to me without 
the slightest embarrassment or hesitation. 

“I twisted my foot in some way,” she said, “and I 
do not know what I am going to do. It hurts me 
to make a step, and I am sure I cannot work my 
wheel.” 

“Have you far to go? ” I asked. 

“I live about two miles from here,” she answered. 
“I do not think I have sprained my ankle, but it 
hurts. Perhaps, however, if I rest for a little while 
I may be able to walk.” 

“I would not try to do that,” said I. “Whatever 
has happened to your foot or ankle, you would cer¬ 
tainly make it very much worse by walking such a 
distance. Perhaps I can ride on and get you a con¬ 
veyance ? ” 

“You would have to go a long way to get one,” 
she answered. “We do not keep a horse, and I 
really — ” 

“Don’t trouble yourself in the least,” I said. “I 
can take you to your home without any difficulty 
whatever. If you will mount your machine I can 
push you along very easily.” 

“But then you would have to walk yourself,” she 
said quickly, “and push your wheel too.” 

Of course it would not have been necessary for me 
10 


A BAD TWIST 


to walk, for I could have ridden my bicycle and have 
pushed her along on her own, but under the circum¬ 
stances I did not think it wise to risk this. So I 
accepted her suggestion of walking as if nothing else 
could be done. 

“Oh, I do not mind walking a bit,” said I. “I am 
used to it, and as I have been riding for a long time, 
it would be a relief to me.” 

She stood perfectly still, apparently afraid to move 
lest she should hurt her foot, but she raised her head 
and fixed a pair of very large blue eyes upon me. 
“It is too kind in you to offer to do this! But I do 
not see what else is to be done. But who is going to 
hold up my wheel while you help me to get on it I ” 

“Oh, I will attend to all that,” said I, and picking 
up her bicycle, I brought it to her. She made a lit¬ 
tle step toward it, and then stopped. 

“You mustn’t do that,” said I. “I will put you 
on.” And holding her bicycle upright with my left 
hand, I put my right arm around her and lifted her 
to the seat. She was such a childlike, sensible young 
person that I did not think it necessary to ask any 
permission for this action, nor even to allude to its 
necessity. 

“Now you might guide yourself with the handle¬ 
bar,” I said. “Please steer over to that tree where I 
have left my machine.” I easily pushed her over to 
the tree, and when I had laid hold of my bicycle 
with my left hand, we slowly proceeded along] the 
smooth road. 

“I think you would better take your feet from the 
pedals,” said I, “and put them on the coasters; the 
motion must hurt you. It is better to have your 
11 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


injured foot raised, anyway, as that will keep the 
blood from running down into it and giving yon 
more pain.” 

She instantly adopted my suggestion, and presently 
said: “That is a great deal more pleasant, and I am 
sure it is better for my foot to keep it still. I do 
hope I haven’t sprained my ankle ! It is possible to 
give a foot a bad twist without spraining it, isn’t 
it?” 

I assented, and as I did so I thought it would not 
be difficult to give a bad twist to any part of this 
slenderly framed young creature. 

“How did you happen to fall?” I asked — not that 
I needed to inquire, for my own knowledge of wheel- 
craft assured me that she had tumbled simply because 
she did not know how to ride. 

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she answered. “The 
first thing I knew I was going over, and I wish I had 
not tried to save myself. It would have been better 
to go down bodily.” 

As we went on she told me that she had not had 
much practice, as it had been but a few weeks since 
she had become the possessor of a wheel, and that 
this was the first trip she had ever taken by herself. 
She had always gone in company with some one, but 
to-day she had thought she was able to take care of 
herself, like other girls. Finding her so entirely free 
from conventional embarrassment, I made bold to 
give her a little advice on the subject of wheeling in 
general, and she seemed entirely willing to be in¬ 
structed. In fact, as I went on with my little dis¬ 
course I began to think that I would much rather 
teach girls than boys. At first sight the young per- 
12 


A BAD TWIST 


son under my charge might have been taken for a 
school-girl, but her conversation would have soon 
removed that illusion. 

We had not proceeded more than a mile when sud¬ 
denly I felt a very gentle tap on the end of my nose, 
and at the same moment the young lady turned her 
head toward me and exclaimed : “It’s going to rain ! 
I felt a drop ! ” 

“I will walk faster,” I said, “and no doubt I will 
get you to your house before the shower is upon us. 
At any rate, I hope you won’t be much wet.” 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter about me in the least,” she 
said. “I shall be at home and can put on dry 
clothes, but you will be soaked through and have to 
go on. You haven’t any coat on ! ” 

If I had known there was any probability of rain 
I should have put on my coat before I started out on 
this somewhat unusual method of travelling, but 
there was no help for it now, and all I could do was 
to hurry on. From walking fast I began to trot. 
The drops were coming down quite frequently. 

“Won’t that tire you dreadfully? ” she said. 

“Hot at all,” I replied. “I could run like this for 
a long distance.” 

She looked up at me with a little smile. I think 
she must have forgotten the pain in her foot. 

“It must be nice to be strong like that,” she said. 

How the rain came down faster, and my compan¬ 
ion declared that I ought to stop and put on my 
coat. I agreed to this, and when I came to a suit¬ 
able tree by the roadside, I carefully leaned her 
against it and detached my coat from my bicycle. 
But just as I was about to put it on I glanced at the 
13 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


young girl. She had on a thin shirt-waist, and I 
could see that the shoulders of it were already wet. 
I advanced toward her, holding out my coat. “I 
must lay this over you,” I said. “I am afraid now 
that I shall not get you to your home before it begins 
to rain hard.” 

She turned to me so suddenly that I made ready 
to catch her if her unguarded movement should over¬ 
turn her machine. “You mustn’t do that at all!” 
she said. “It doesn’t matter whether I am wet or 
not. I do not have to travel in wet clothes, and you 
do. Please put on your coat and let us hurry ! ” 

I obeyed her, and away we went again, the rain 
now coming down hard and fast. For some minutes 
she did not say anything; but I did not wonder at 
this, for circumstances were not favorable to conver¬ 
sation. But presently, in spite of the rain and our 
haste, she spoke: 

“It must seem dreadfully ungrateful and hard¬ 
hearted in me to say to you, after all you have done 
for me, that you must go on in the rain. Anybody 
would think that I ought to ask you to come into 
our house and wait until the storm is over. But, 
really, I do not see how I can do it.” 

I urged her not for a moment to think of me. I 
was hardy, and did not mind rain, and when I was 
mounted upon my wheel the exercise would keep me 
warm enough until I reached a place of shelter. 

“I do not like it,” she said. “It is cruel and in¬ 
human, and nothing you can say will make it any 
better. But the fact is that I find myself in a very— 
Well, I do not know what to say about it. You are 
the school-teacher at Walford, are you not?” 

14 


A BAD TWIST 


This question surprised me, and I assented quickly, 
wondering what would come next. 

“I thought so,” she said. “I have seen you on the 
road on your wheel, and some one told me who you 
were. And now, since you have been so kind to me, 
I am going to tell you exactly why I cannot ask you 
to stop at our house. Everything is all wrong there 
to-day, and if I don’t explain what has happened, 
you might think that things are worse than they 
really are, and I wouldn’t want anybody to think 
that.” 

I listened with great attention, for I saw that she 
was anxious to free herself of the imputation of 
being inhospitable, and although the heavy rain and 
my rapid pace made it sometimes difficult to catch 
her words, I lost very little of her story. 

“You see,” said she, “my father is very fond of 
gardening, and he takes great pride in his vegetables, 
especially the early ones. He has peas this year 
ahead of everybody else in the neighborhood, and it 
was only day before yesterday that he took me out to 
look at them. He has been watching them ever 
since they first came up out of the ground, and when 
he showed me the [nice big pods and told me they 
would be ready to pick in a day or two, he looked so 
proud and happy that you might have thought his 
peas were little living people. I truly believe that 
even at prayer-time he could not help thinking how 
good those peas would taste. 

“But this morning when he came in from the gar¬ 
den and told mother that he was going to pick our 
first peas, so as to have them perfectly fresh for 
dinner, she said that he would better not pick them 
15 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


to-day, because the vegetable-man had been along 
just after breakfast, and he had had such nice green 
peas that she had bought some, and therefore he had 
better keep his peas for some other day. 

“Now, I don’t want you to think that mother isn’t 
just as good as gold, for she is. But she doesn’t take 
such interest in garden things as father does, and to 
her all peas are peas, provided they are good ones. 
But when father heard what she had done I know 
that he felt exactly as if he had been stabbed in one 
of his tenderest places. He did not say one word, 
and he walked right out of the house, and since that 
they haven’t spoken to each other. It was dreadful 
to sit at dinner, neither of them saying a word to the 
other, and only speaking to me. It was all so differ¬ 
ent from the way things generally are that I can 
scarcely bear it. 

“And I went out this afternoon for no other reason 
than to give them a chance to make it up between 
them. I thought perhaps they would do it better if 
they were alone with each other. But of course I do 
not know what has happened, and things may be 
worse than they were. I could not take a stranger 
into the house at such a time—they would not like 
to be found not speaking to each other—and, be¬ 
sides, I do know—” 

Here I interrupted her, and begged her not to 
give another thought to the subject. I wanted very 
much to go on, and in every way it was the best 
thing I could do. 

As I finished speaking she pointed out a pretty 
house standing back from the road, and told me that 
was where she lived. In a very few minutes after 
16 


A BAD TWIST 


that I had run her up to the steps of her piazza and 
was assisting her to dismount from her wheel. 

“It is awful!” she said. “This rain is coming 
down like a cataract! ” 

“You must hurry indoors,” I answered. “Let me 
help you up the steps.” And with this I took hold 
of her under the arms, and in a second I had set her 
down in front of the closed front door. I then ran 
down and brought up her wheel. “Do you think 
you can manage to walk in f ” said I. 

“Oh yes ! ” she said. “If I can’t do anything else, 
I can hop. My mother will soon have me all right. 
She knows all about such things.” 

She looked at me with an anxious expression, and 
then said, “How do you think it would do for you to 
wait on the piazza until the rain is over f ” 

“Good-by,” I said, with a laugh, and bounding 
down to the front gate, where I had left my bicycle, 
I mounted and rode away. 

The rain came down harder and harder. The road 
was full of little running streams, and liquid mud 
flew from under my whirling wheels. It was not 
late in the afternoon, but it was actually getting 
dark, and I seemed to be the only living creature 
out in this tremendous storm. I looked from side 
to side for some place into which I could run for 
shelter, but here the road ran between broad open 
fields. My coat had ceased to protect me, and I 
could feel the water upon my skin. 

But in spite of my discomforts and violent exer¬ 
tions I found myself under the influence of some very 
pleasurable emotions, occasioned by the incident of 
the slender girl. Her childlike frankness was charm- 
17 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 

ing to me. There was not another girl in a thousand 
who would have told me that story of the peas. I 
felt glad that she had known who I was when she 
was talking to me, and that her simple confidences 
had been given to me personally, and not to an en¬ 
tire stranger who had happened along. I wondered 
if she resembled her father or her mother, and I had 
no doubt that to possess such a daughter they must 
both be excellent people. 


18 


CHAPTER III 

the duke’s dressing-gown 

Thinking thus, I almost forgot the storm ; hut com¬ 
ing to a slight descent where the road was very 
smooth, I became conscious that my wheel was in¬ 
clined to slip, and if I were not careful I might come 
to grief. But no sooner had I reached the bottom 
of the declivity than I beheld on my right a lighted 
doorway. Without the slightest hesitation, I turned 
through the wide gateway, the posts of which I could 
scarcely see, and stopped in front of a small house by 
the side of a driveway. Waiting for no permission, 
I carried my bicycle into a little covered porch. I 
then approached the door, for I was now seeking not 
only shelter but an opportunity to dry myself. I 
do not believe a sponge could have been more 
thoroughly soaked than I was. 

At the very entrance I was met by a little man in 
short jacket and top-boots. 

“I heard your step,” said he. “Been caught in the 
rain, eh? Well, this is a storm! And now what’re 
we going to do? You must come in. But you’re in 
a pretty mess, I must say ! Hi, Maria! ” 

At these words a large, fresh-looking woman came 
into the little hall. 


19 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“Maria,” said the man, “here’s a gentleman that’s 
pretty nigh drowned, and he’s dripping puddles big 
enough to swim in.” 

The woman smiled. “Really, sir,” said she, “you’ve 
had a hard time. Wheeling, I suppose. It’s an awful 
time to be out. It’s so dark that I lighted a lamp to 
make things look a little cheery. But you must 
come in until the rain is over, and try and dry your¬ 
self.” 

“But how about the hall, Maria?” said the man. 
“There’ll be a dreadful slop ! ” 

“Oh, I’ll make that all right,” she said. She dis¬ 
appeared, and quickly returned with a couple of 
rugs, which she laid, wrong side up, on the polished 
floor of the hallway. “Now you can step on those, 
sir, and come into the kitchen. There’s a fire there.” 

I thanked her, and presently found myself before a 
large stove, on which it was evident, from the odors, 
that supper was preparing. In a certain way the 
heat was grateful, but in less than a minute I was 
bound to admit to myself that I felt as if I were en¬ 
veloped in a vast warm poultice. The little man 
and his wife —if wife she were, for she looked big 
enough to be his mother and young enough to be his 
daughter — stood talking in the hall, and I could 
hear every word they said. 

“It’s of no use for him to try to dry himself,” she 
said, “ for he’s wet to the bone. He must change his 
clothes, and hang those he’s got on before the fire.” 

“ Change his clothes ! ” exclaimed the man. “ How 
ever can he do that ? I’ve nothing that’ll fit him, and 
of course he has brought nothing along with him.” 

“ Never you mind,” said she. “ Something’s got to 
20 


THE DUKES DRESSING-GOWN 

be got. Take him into the little chamber. And don’t 
consider the floor j that can be wiped up.” 

She came into the kitchen and spoke to me. “ You 
must come and change your clothes,” she said. “ You’ll 
catch your death of cold, else. You’re the school¬ 
master from Walford, I think, sir? Indeed, I’m sure 
of it, for I’ve seen you on your wheel.” 

Smiling at the idea that through the instrumental¬ 
ity of my bicycle I had been making myself known to 
the people of the surrounding country, I followed the 
man into a small bedchamber on the ground floor. 

“Now,” said he, “the quicker you get off your wet 
clothes and give yourself a good rub-down the better 
it will be for you. And I’ll go and see what I can do 
in the way of something for you to put on.” 

I asked him to bring me the bag from my bicycle, 
and after doing so he left me. 

Yery soon I heard talking outside of my door, and 
as both my entertainers had clear, high voices, I could 
hear distinctly what they said. 

“Go get him the corduroys,” said she. “He’s a 
well-made man, but he’s no bigger than your father 
was.” 

“The corduroys?” he said—somewhat doubtfully, 
I thought. 

“ Yes,” she replied. “Go get them ! I should be 
glad to have them put to some use.” 

“ But what for a coat ? ” said he. There’s nothing 
in the house that he could get on.” 

“ That’s true,” said she. “ But he must have some¬ 
thing. You can get him the Duke’s dressing-gown.” 

“ What! ” exclaimed the man. “ You don’t mean—” 

“Yes, I do mean,” said she. “It’s big enough for 
21 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


anybody, and it’ll keep him from ketching cold. Go 
fetch it!” 

In a short time there was a knock at my door, and 
the little man handed me in a pair of yellow cordu¬ 
roy trousers and a large and gaudy dressing-gown. 
u There ! ” said he. u They’ll keep you warm until 
your own clothes dry.” 

With a change of linen from my bag, which had 
fortunately kept its contents dry, the yellow trousers, 
and a wonderful dressing-gown made of some blue 
stuff embroidered with gold and lined throughout 
with crimson satin, I made a truly gorgeous appear¬ 
ance. But it struck me that it would be rather start¬ 
ling to a beholder were I to appear barefooted in such 
raiment; for my shoes and stockings were as wet as 
the rest of my clothes. I had not finished dressing 
before the little man knocked again, this time with 
some gray socks and a pair of embroidered slippers. 

“These’ll fit you, I think,” said he, “for I’ll lay 
you ten shillings that I’m as big in the feet as you are.” 

I would have been glad to gaze at myself in a full- 
length mirror, but there was no opportunity for the 
indulgence of such vanity; and before leaving the 
room I sat down for a moment to give a few thoughts 
to the situation. My mind first reverted to the soaked 
condition of my garments and the difficulty of getting 
them dry enough for me to put them on and continue 
my journey. Then I found that I had dropped the 
subject and was thinking of the slender girl, wonder¬ 
ing if she had really hurt herself very much, congrat¬ 
ulating myself that I had been fortunate enough to 
be on hand to help her in her need, and considering 
what a plight she would have been in if she had been 
22 


THE DUKES DRESSING-GOWN 


caught in that terrible rain and utterly unable to get 
herself to shelter. 

Suddenly I stopped short in my thinking, and, going 
to my bag, I took from it the little box of quinine 
capsules which had been given to me by the doctor’s 
daughter, and promptly proceeded to swallow one of 
them. 

“It may be of service to me,” I said to myself. 

When I made my appearance in the hallway I met 
the little man, who immediately burst into a roar of 
laughter. 

“ Lord, sir ! ” said he. “ You must excuse me, but 
you look like a king on a lark! Walk into the 
parlor, sir, and sit down and make yourself comfort¬ 
able. She’s hurrying up supper to give you something 
warm after your wettin’. Would you like a little nip 
of whiskey, sir, to keep the damp out ? ” 

I declined the whiskey, and seated myself in the 
neatly furnished parlor. It was wonderful, I thought, 
to fall into such a hospitable household, and then I 
began to ask myself whether or not it would be the 
proper thing to offer to pay for my entertainment. 
I thought I had quite properly divined the position 
in life of the little man. This small house, so hand¬ 
somely built and neatly kept, must be a lodge upon 
some fine country place, and the man was probably 
the head gardner or something of the kind. 

It was not long before my hostess came into the 
room, but she did not laugh at my appearance. She 
was a handsome woman, erect and broad, with a 
free and powerful step. She smiled as she spoke to 
me. 

“You may think that that’s an over-handsome 
23 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


gown for such as us to be owning. It was given to 
my man by the Duke of Radford. That was before 
we were married, and he was an under-gardener 
then. The Duchess wouldn’t let the Duke wear it, 
because it was so gay, and there wasn’t none of the 
servants that would care to take it, for fear they’d be 
laughed at, until they offered it to John. And John, 
you must know, he’d take anything! But I came 
in to tell you supper’s ready; and, if you like, I’ll 
bring you something in here, and you can eat it on 
that table, or—” 

Here I interrupted my good hostess, and declared 
that, while I should be glad to have some supper, I 
would not eat any unless I might sit down with her 
husband and herself j and as this proposition seemed 
to please her, the three of us were soon seated around 
a very tastefully furnished table in a dining-room 
looking out upon a pretty lawn. The rain had now 
almost ceased, and from the window I could see 
beautiful stretches of grass, interspersed with orna¬ 
mental trees and flower-beds. 

The meal was plain but abundant, with an 
appetizing smell pervading it which is seldom noticed 
in connection with the tables of the rich. When we 
had finished supper I found that the skies had nearly 
cleared and that it was growing quite light again. I 
asked permission to step out upon a little piazza 
which opened from the dining-room and smoke a 
pipe, and while I was sitting there, enjoying the 
beauty of the sunlight on the sparkling grass and 
trees, I again heard the little man and his wife talk¬ 
ing to each other. 

u It can’t be done,” said he, speaking very pos- 
24 


THE DUKE’S DRESSING-GOWN 


itively. “ I’ve orders about that, and there’s no get¬ 
ting round them.” 

“ It’s got to be done! ” said she, “ and there’s an 
end of it! The clothes won’t be dry until morning, 
and it won’t do to put them too near the stove, or 
they’ll shrink so he can’t get them on. And he can’t 
go away to hunt up lodgings wearing the Duke’s 
dressing-gown and them yellow breeches ! ” 

u Orders is orders,” said the man, “ and unless I get 
special leave it can’t be done.” 

“Well, then, go and get special leave,” said she, 
“ and don’t stand there talking about it! ” 

There was no doubt that my lodging that night 
was the subject of this conversation, but I had no de¬ 
sire to interfere with the good intentions of my host¬ 
ess. I must stay somewhere until my clothes were 
dry, and I should be glad to stop in my present com¬ 
fortable quarters. 

So I sat still and smoked, and very soon I heard 
the big shoes of the little man grating upon the gravel 
as he walked rapidly away from the house. Now 
came the good woman out upon the piazza to ask me if 
I had found my tobacco dry. “ Because if it’s damp,” 
said she , u my man has some very good ’baccy in his jar.” 

I assured her that my pouch had kept dry; and 
then, as she seemed inclined to talk, I begged her to 
sit down if she did not mind the pipe. Down she sat, 
and steadily she talked. She congratulated herself 
on her happy thought to light the hall lamp, or I 
might never have noticed the house in the darkness, 
and she would have been sorry enough if I had had 
to keep on the road for another half-hour in that 
dreadful rain. 


25 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


On she talked in the most cheerful and communi¬ 
cative way, until suddenly she rose with a start. 
u He’s coming himself, sir! ” she said, “ with Miss 
Putney.” 

“Who is ‘he’?” I asked. 

“It’s the master, sir,—Mr. Putney,—and his daugh¬ 
ter. Just stay here where you are, sir, and make 
yourself comfortable. I’ll go and speak to them.” 

Left to myself, I knocked out my pipe and sat 
wondering what would happen next. A thing hap¬ 
pened which surprised me very much. Upon a path 
which ran in front of the little piazza there appeared 
two persons—one an elderly gentleman with gray 
side-whiskers and a pale face, attired in clothes with 
such an appearance of newness that it might well 
have been supposed this was the first time he had 
worn them ; the other, a young lady, rather small in 
stature, but extremely pleasant to look upon. She 
had dark hair and large blue eyes; her complexion 
was rich, and her dress of light silk was wonderfully 
well shaped. 

All this I saw at a glance, and immediately after¬ 
wards I also perceived that she had most beautiful 
teeth 5 for when she beheld me, as I rose from my 
chair and stood in my elevated position before her, 
she could not restrain a laughj but for this apparent 
impoliteness I did not blame her at all. 

But not so much as a smile came upon the coun¬ 
tenance of the elderly gentleman. He, too, was 
small, but he had a deep voice. “Good evening, sir,” 
said he. “I am told that you are the schoolmaster 
at Walford, and that you were overtaken by the 
storm.” 


26 


THE DUKE’S DRESSING-GOWN 


I assured him that these were the facts, and stood 
waiting to hear what he would say next. 

“It was very proper indeed, sir, that my gardener 
and his wife should take you under the protection of 
this roof$ but as I hear that it is proposed that you 
should spend the night here, I have come down to 
speak about it. I will tell you at once, sir, that I 
have given my man the most positive orders that he 
is not to allow any one to spend a night in this house. 
It is so conveniently near to the road that I should 
not know what sort of persons were being enter¬ 
tained here if I allowed him any such privilege.” 

As he spoke the young lady stood silently gazing 
at me. There was a remnant of a smile upon her 
face, but I could also see that she was a little 
annoyed. I was about to make some sort of an inde¬ 
pendent answer to the gentleman’s remarks, but he 
anticipated me: 

“I do not want you to think, sir, on account of 
what I have said, that I intend to drive you off my 
property at this hour of the evening, and in your 
inappropriate clothing. I have heard of you, sir, 
and you occupy a position of trust and, to a certain 
degree, of honor, in your village. Therefore, while I 
cannot depart from my rule,—for I wish to make no 
precedent of that kind,—I will ask you to spend the 
night at my house. You need not be annoyed by 
the peculiarity of your attire. If you desire to 
avoid observation you can remain here until it grows 
darker, and then you can walk up to the mansion. 
I shall have a bedroom prepared for you, and when¬ 
ever you choose you can occupy it. I have been 
informed that you have had something to eat, and it 
27 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


is as well, for perhaps your dress would prevent you 
from accepting an invitation to our evening meal.” 

I still held my brier-wood pipe in my hand, and I 
felt inclined to hurl it at the dapper head of the con¬ 
sequential little gentleman j but with such a girl 
standing by it would have been impossible to treat 
him with any disrespect, and as I looked at him I felt 
sure that his apparent superciliousness was probably 
the result of too much money and too little breeding. 

The young lady said nothing, but she turned and 
looked steadily at her father. Her countenance was 
probably in the habit of very promptly expressing 
the state of her mind, and it now seemed to say to 
her father, “I hope that what you have said will not 
make him decline what you offer! ” 

My irritation quickly disappeared. I had now 
entered into my Cathay, and I must take things as I 
found them there. As I could not stay where I was, 
and could not continue my journey, it would be a 
sensible thing to overlook the-* man’s manner and 
accept his offer, and I accordingly did so. I think 
he was pleased more than he cared to express. 

“Very good, sir ! ” said he. “ As soon as it grows a 
little darker I shall be glad to have you walk up to 
my house. As I said before, I am sure you would 
not care to do so now, as you might provoke re¬ 
marks even from the servants. Good evening, sir, 
until I see you again.” 

During all this time the young lady had not 
spoken j but as the two disappeared around the 
corner of the house I heard her voice. She spoke 
very clearly and distinctly, and she said, “It would 
have been a great deal more gracious if you had 
28 


THE DUKE’S DRESSING-GOWN 


asked him to come at once, without all that — ” 
The rest of her remarks were lost to me. 

The little man and his wife presently came out on 
the porch. Her countenance expressed a sort of 
resignation to thwarted hospitality. 

“It’s the way of the world, sir ! ” she said. “The 
ups are always up and the downs are always down! 
I expect they will be glad to have company at the 
house, for it must be dreadfully lonely up there— 
which might be said of this house as well.” 

It soon became dark enough for me to walk 
through the grounds without hurting the sensibili¬ 
ties of their proprietor, and as I arose to go the good 
wife of the gardener brought me my cap. 

“I dried that out for you, sir, for I knew you 
would want it, and to-morrow morning my man will 
take your clothes up to the house.” 

I thanked her for her thoughtful kindness, and 
was about to depart, but the little man was not quite 
ready for me to go. 

“If you don’t mind, sir,” said he, “and would step 
back there in the light just for one minute, I would 
like to take another look at you. I don’t suppose I’ll 
ever see anybody again wearing the Duke’s dressing- 
gown. By George, sir, you do look real royal! ” 

His wife looked at me admiringly. “Yes, sir,” 
said she, “and I wish it was the fashion for gentle¬ 
men to dress something like that every day. But I 
will say, sir, that if you don’t want people to be star¬ 
ing at you, and will just wrap that gown round you 
so that the lining won’t be seen, you won’t look so 
much out of the way.” 

As I walked along the smooth, hard driveway I 
29 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 

adopted the suggestion of the gardener’s wife; but 
as I approached the house, and saw that even the 
broad piazza was lighted by electric lamps, I was 
seized with the fancy to appear in all my glory, and 
I allowed my capacious robe to float out on each side 
of me in crimson brightness. 

The gentleman stood at the top of the steps. “I 
have been waiting for you, sir,” said he. He looked 
as if he were about to offer me his hand, but prob¬ 
ably considered this an unnecessary ceremony under 
the circumstances. “Would you like to retire to 
your room, sir, or would you prefer—prefer sitting 
out here to enjoy the cool of the evening? Here are 
chairs and seats, sir, of all variety of comfort. My 
family and I frequently sit out here in the evenings, 
but to-night the air is a little damp.” 

I assured the gentleman that the air suited me 
very well, and that I would prefer not to retire so 
early ; and so, not caring any longer to stand in front 
of the lighted doorway, I walked to one end of the 
piazza and took a seat. 

“We haven’t yet — that is to say, we are still at 
the table,” he remarked, as he followed me; “but if 
there is anything that you would like to have, I 
should be—” 

I interrupted him by declaring that I had supped 
heartily and did not want for anything in the world, 
and then, with some sort of an inarticulate excuse, he 
left me. I knew very well that this nervously cor¬ 
rect personage had jumped up from his dinner in 
order that he might meet me at the door and thus 
prevent my unconventional attire from shocking any 
of the servants. 


30 


THE DUKE’S DRESSING-GOWN 


It was very quiet and pleasant on the piazza, but, 
although I could hear that a great deal of talking 
was going on inside, no words came to me. In a 
short time, however, a man-servant in livery came 
out upon the piazza and approached me with a tray 
on which were a cup of coffee and some cigars. I 
could not refrain from smiling as I saw the man. 

“The old fellow has been forced to conquer his prej¬ 
udices,” I said to myself, “and to submit to the mor¬ 
tification of allowing me to be seen by his butler ! ” 

I think, however, that even had the master been 
regarding us he would have seen no reason for morti¬ 
fication in the manner of his servant. The man was 
extremely polite and attentive, suggesting various 
refreshments, such as wine and biscuits, and I never 
was treated by a lackey with more respect. 

Leaning back in a comfortable chair, I sipped my 
coffee and puffed away at a perfectly delightful 
Havana cigar. “Cathay is not a bad place,” said I, 
to myself. “Its hospitality is a little queer, but as to 
gorgeousness, luxury, and—” I was about to add 
another quality when my mind was diverted by a 
light step on the piazza, and, turning my head, I 
beheld the young lady I had seen before. Instantly 
I rose and laid aside my cigar. 

“Please do not disturb yourself,” she said. “I 
simply came out to give a little message from my 
father. Bit down again, and I will take this seat for 
a moment. My father’s health is delicate,” she said, 
“and we do not like him to be out in the night air, 
especially after a rain. So I came in his stead to tell 
you that if you would like to come into the house 
you must do so without the slightest hesitation, be- 
31 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


cause my mother and I do not mind that dressing- 
gown any more than if it were an ordinary coat. 
We are very glad to have the opportunity of enter¬ 
taining you, for we know some people in Walford,— 
not very many, but some,—and we have heard you 
and your school spoken of very highly. So we want 
you to make yourself perfectly at home, and come in 
or sit out here, just as your own feelings in regard to 
extraordinary fine clothes shall prompt you.” 

At this she reassured me as to the beauty of her 
teeth. “As long as you will sit out here,” said I to 
myself, “there will be no indoors for me.” 

She seemed to read my thoughts, and said: “If 
you will go on with your smoking, I will wait and 
ask you some things about Walford. I dearly love 
the smell of a good cigar, and father never smokes. 
He always keeps them, however, in case of gentle¬ 
men visitors.” 

She then went on to talk about some Walford peo¬ 
ple, and asked me if I knew Mary Talbot. I replied 
in the affirmative, for Miss Talbot was a member of 
our literary society, and the young lady informed me 
that Mary Talbot had a brother in my school—a 
fact of which I was aware to my sorrow—and it was 
on account of this brother that she had first hap¬ 
pened to see me. 

“ See me ! ” I exclaimed, with surprise. 

“ Yes,” said she. “ I drove over to the village one 
day this spring, and Mary and I were walking past 
your schoolhouse, and the door was wide open, for it 
was so warm, and we stopped so that Mary might 
point out her brother to me; and so, as we were 
looking in, of course I saw you.” 

32 


THE DUKE’S DRESSING-GOWN 


u And you recognized me/’ I said, “when you saw 
me at the gardener’s house ? ” 

“¥e call that the lodge,” said she. “ Not that I 
care in the least what name you give it. And while 
we are on a personal subject, I want to ask you to 
excuse me for laughing at you when I first saw you in 
that astounding garb. It was very improper, I know, 
but the apparition was so sudden I could not help it.” 

I had never met a young lady so thoroughly self- 
contained as this one. None of the formalities of 
society had been observed in regard to our acquaint¬ 
ance with each other, but she talked with me with 
such an easy grace and with such a gentle assurance 
that there was no need of introduction or presenta¬ 
tion 5 I felt acquainted with her on the spot. I had 
no doubt that her exceptionally gracious demeanor 
was due to the fact that nobody else in the house 
seemed inclined to be gracious, and she felt hospital¬ 
ity demanded that something of the kind should be 
offered me by some one of the family. 

We talked together for some minutes longer, and 
then, apparently hearing something in the house 
which I did not notice, she rose rather abruptly. 

“ I must go in,” she said ; “ but don’t you stay out 
here a second longer than you want to.” 

She had left me but a very short time when her 
father came out on the piazza, his coat buttoned up 
nearly to his chin. “ I have been detained, sir,” he 
said, “ by a man who came to see me on business. I 
cannot remain with you out here, for the air affects 
me; but if you will come in, sir, I shall be glad to 
have you do so, without regard to your appearance. 
My wife is not strong and she has retired, and if it 
33 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


pleases you I shall be very glad to have you tell me 
something of your duties and success in Walford. 
Or, if you are fatigued, your room is ready for you, 
and my man will show you to it.” 

I snatched at the relief held out to me. To sit in 
the company of that condescending prig, to bore him 
and to be bored by him, was a doleful grievance I did 
not wish to inflict upon myself, and I eagerly answered 
that the day had been a long and hard one, and that 
I would be glad to go to bed. 

This was an assertion which was doubly false, for I 
was not in the least tired or sleepy ; and just as I had 
made the statement and was entering the hall I saw 
that the young lady was standing at the parlor door ; 
but it was too late now for me to change my mind. 

II Brownster,” said Mr. Putney to his butler, u will 
you give this gentleman a candle and show him to his 
room ? ” 

Brownster quietly bowed, and stepping to a table 
in the corner, on which stood some brass bedroom 
candlesticks, he lighted one of the candles and stood 
waiting. 

The gentleman moved toward his daughter, and 
then he stopped and turned to me. a We have break¬ 
fast,” he said, u at half-past eight. But if that is too 
late for you,” he added, with a certain hesitation, 
“ you can have—” 

At this moment I distinctly saw his daughter punch 
him with her elbow, and as I had no desire to make 
an early start, and wished very much to enjoy a good 
breakfast in Cathay, I quickly declared that I was in 
no hurry, and that the family breakfast hour would 
suit me perfectly. 


34 


THE DUKE’S DRESSING-GOWN 


The young lady disappeared into the parlor, and I 
moved toward the butler$ but my host, probably 
thinking that he had not been quite as attentive to 
me as his station demanded, or wishing to let me see 
what a fine house he possessed, stepped up to me and 
asked me to look into the billiard-room, the door of 
which I was about to pass. After some remarks of 
deprecatory ostentation, in which he informed me 
that in building his house he thought only of comfort 
and convenience, and nothing of show, he carelessly 
invited my attention to the drawing-room, the library, 
the music-room, and the little sitting-room, all of which 
were furnished with as much stiffness and hardness 
and inharmonious coloring as money could command. 

When we had finished the round of these rooms he 
made me a bow as stiff as one of his white-and-gold 
chairs, and I followed the butler up the staircase. 
The man with the light preceded me into a room on 
the second floor, and just as I was about to enter after 
him I saw the young lady come around a corner of 
the hall with a lighted candle in her hand. 

u Good night / 7 she said, with a smile so charming 
that I wanted to stop and tell her something about 
Mary Talbot’s brother ; but she passed on, and I went 
into my room. 

It seemed perfectly ridiculous to me that people 
should carry around bedroom candles in a house 
lighted from top to bottom by electricity, but I had 
no doubt that this was one of the ultra-conventional 
customs from which the dapper gentleman would 
not allow his family to depart. I did not believe for 
a moment that his daughter would conform to such 
nonsense except to please her parent. 

35 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


The softly moving and attentive Brownster put the 
candle on the table, blew it out, and touched a but¬ 
ton, thereby lighting up a very handsomely fur¬ 
nished room. Then, after performing every possible 
service for me, with a bow he left me. Throwing 
myself into a great easy-chair, I kicked off my em¬ 
broidered slippers and put my feet upon another 
chair gay with satin stripes. Raising my eyes, I saw 
in front of me a handsome mirror extending from the 
floor nearly to the ceiling, and at the magnificent 
personage which therein met my gaze I could not 
help laughing aloud. 

I rose, stood before the mirror, folded my gorgeous 
gown around me, spread it out, contrasting the crim¬ 
son glory of its lining with the golden yellow of my 
trousers, and wondered in my soul how that exceed¬ 
ingly handsome girl with the bright eyes could have 
controlled her risibilities as she sat with me on the 
piazza. I could see that she had a wonderful com¬ 
mand of herself, but this exercise of it seemed super¬ 
human. 

I walked around the sumptuously furnished cham¬ 
ber, looking at the pictures and bric-a-brac; I 
wondered that the master of the house was willing to 
put me in a room like this—I had expected a hall 
bedroom, at the best. I sat down by an open window, 
for it was very early yet and I did not want to go to 
bed, but I had scarcely seated myself when I heard a 
tap at the door. I could not have explained it, but 
this tap made me jump, and I went to the door and 
opened it instead of calling out. There stood the 
butler, with a tray in his hand on which was a de¬ 
canter of wine, biscuits, cheese, and some cigars. 

36 


THE DUKE’S DRESSING-GOWN 


“ It’s so early, sir,” said Brownster, “ that she said 
—I mean, sir, I thought that you might like some¬ 
thing to eat, and if you want to enjoy a cigar before 
retiring, as many gentlemen do, you need not mind 
smoking here. These rooms are so well ventilated, 
sir, that every particle of odor will be out in no 
time.” Placing the tray upon a table, he retired. 

For an hour or more I sat sipping my wine, 
puffing smoke into rings, and allowing my mind 
to dwell pleasingly upon the situation, the most prom¬ 
inent feature of which seemed to me to be a young 
lady with bright eyes and white teeth, and dressed 
in a perfectly fitting gown. 

When at last I thought I ought to go to bed, I 
stood and gazed at my little valise. I had left it on 
the porch and had totally forgotten it, but here it 
was upon a table, where it had been placed, no doubt, 
by the thoughtful Brownster. I opened it and took 
out the box of capsules. I did not feel that I had 
taken cold in the night air $ this was not a time to 
protect myself against morning mists: but still I 
thought it would be well for me to swallow a capsule, 
and I did so. 


37 


CHAPTEE IV 


A BIT OF ADVICE 

The next morning I awoke about seven o’clock. 
My clothes, neatly brushed and folded, were on a 
chair near the bed, with my brightly blackened 
shoes near by. I rose, quickly dressed myself, and 
went forth into the morning air. I met no one in the 
house, and the hall door was open. For an hour or 
more I walked about the beautiful grounds. Some¬ 
times I wandered near the house, among the flower¬ 
beds and shrubs; sometimes I followed the winding 
path to a considerable distance$ occasionally I sat 
down in a covered arbor j and then I sought the shade 
of a little grove, in which there were hammocks and 
rustic chairs. But I met no one, and I saw no one 
except some men working near the stables. I would 
have been glad to go down to the lodge and say 
u good morning ” to my kind entertainers there, but 
for some reason or other it struck me that that neat 
little house was too much out of the way. 

When I had had enough walking I retired to the 
piazza and sat there, until Brownster, with a bow, 
came and informed me that breakfast was served. 

The young lady, in the freshest of summer costumes, 
met me at the door and bade me u good morning,” 
38 


A BIT OF ADVICE 


but the greeting of her father was not by any means 
cordial, although his manner had lost some of the stiff 
condescension which had sat so badly upon him the 
evening before. The mother was a very pleasant little 
lady of few words and a general air which indicated 
an intimate acquaintance with back seats. 

The breakfast was a remarkably good one. When 
the meal was over, Mr. Putney walked with me into 
the hall. “ I must now ask you to excuse me, sir,” 
said he, “ as this is the hour when I receive my man¬ 
ager and arrange with him for the varied business of 
the day. Good morning, sir. I wish you a very 
pleasant journey.” And, barely giving me a chance 
to thank him for his entertainment, he disappeared 
into the back part of the house. 

The young lady was standing at the front of the 
hall. u Won’t you please come in,” she said, “and 
see mother? She wants to talk to you about Wal- 
ford.” 

J found the little lady in a small room opening 
from the parlor, and also, to my great surprise, I 
found her extremely talkative and chatty. She asked 
me so many questions that I had little chance to an¬ 
swer them, and she told me a great deal more about 
Walford and its people and citizens than I had learned 
during my nine months’ residence in the village. I 
was very glad to give her an opportunity of talking, 
which was a pleasure, I imagined, she did not often 
enjoy; but as I saw no signs of her stopping, I was 
obliged to rise and take leave of her. 

The young lady accompanied me into the hall. u I 
must get my valise,” I said, “ and then I must be off. 
And I assure you —” 


39 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“No, do not trouble yourself about your valise,” 
she interrupted. “Brownster will attend to that— 
he will take it down to the lodge. And as to your gor¬ 
geous raiment, he will see that that is all properly 
returned to its owners.” 

I picked up my cap, and she walked with me out 
upon the piazza. “ I suppose you saw everything on 
our place,” she asked, u when you were walking 
about this morning ? ” 

A little surprised, I answered that I had seen a 
good deal, but I did not add that I had not found 
what I was looking for. 

“ We have all sorts of hothouses and greenhouses,” 
she said, “ but they are not very interesting at this 
time of the year, otherwise I would ask you to walk 
through them before you go.” She then went on to 
tell me that a little building which she pointed out 
was a mushroom-house. u And you will think it 
strange that it should be there when I tell you that 
not one of our family likes mushrooms or ever tastes 
one. But the manager thinks that we ought to grow 
mushrooms, and so we do it.” 

As she was talking, the thought came to me that 
there were some people who might consider this 
young lady a little forward in her method of enter¬ 
taining a comparative stranger, but I dismissed this 
idea. With such a peculiarly constituted family it 
was perhaps necessary for her to put herself forward, 
in regard, at least, to the expression of hospitality. 

u One thing I must show you,” she said suddenly, 
u and that is the orchid-house! Are you fond of 
orchids? ” 

u Under certain circumstances,” I said unguard- 
40 


A BIT OF ADVICE 


edly, “ I could be fond of apple-cores.” As soon as I 
had spoken these words I would have been glad to 
recall them, but they seemed to make no impression 
whatever on her. 

We walked to the orchid-house, we went through 
it, and she explained all its beauties, its singularities, 
and its rarities. When we came out again, I asked 
myself: “ Is she in the habit of doing all this to chance 
visitors? Would she treat a Brown or a Bobinson in 
the way she is treating me ? ” I could not answer my 
question, but if Brown and Robinson had appeared at 
that moment I should have been glad to knock their 
heads together. 

I did not want to go j I would have been glad to 
examine every building on the place: but I knew I 
must depart ; and as I was beginning to express my 
sense of the kindness with which I had been treated, 
she interrupted by asking me if I expected to come 
back this way. 

“ Ho,” said I, “ that is not my plan. I expect to 
ride on to Waterton, and there I shall stop for a day 
or two and decide what section of the country I shall 
explore next.” 

“ And to-day?” she said. “ Where have you 
planned to spend the night?” 

“ I have been recommended to stop at a little inn 
called the ‘Holly Sprig/ ” I replied. “It is a leisurely 
day’s journey from Walford, and I have been told 
that it is a pleasant place and a pretty country. I 
do not care to travel all the time, and I want to stop 
a little when I find interesting scenery.” 

“ Oh, I know the Holly Sprig Inn,” said she, speak¬ 
ing very quickly, “ and I would advise you not to 
41 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


stop there. We have lunched there two or three 
times when we were out on long drives. There is a 
much better house about five miles the other side of 
the Holly Sprig. It is really a large, handsome hotel, 
with good service and everything you want—where 
people go to spend the summer.” 

I thanked her for her information and bade her 
good-by. She shook my hand very cordially and I 
walked away. I had gone but a very few steps 
when I wanted to turn around and look back ; but I 
did not. 

Before I had reached the lodge, where I had left 
my bicycle, I met Brownster, and when I saw him I 
put my hand into my pocket. He had certainly 
been very attentive. 

“ I carried your valise, sir,” he said, u to the lodge, 
and I took the liberty of strapping it to your handle¬ 
bar. You will find everything all right, sir, and the 
—other clothes will be properly attended to.” 

I thanked him, and then handed him some money. 
To my surprise, he did not offer to take it. He 
smiled a little and bowed. 

u Would you mind, sir,” he said, “ if you did not 
give me anything? I assure you, sir, that I’d very 
much rather that you wouldn’t give me anything.” 
And with this he bowed and rapidly disappeared. 

u Well,” said I to myself, as I put my money back 
into my pocket, “ it is a queer country, this Cathay.” 

As I approached the lodge, I felt that perhaps I 
had received a lesson, but I was not sure. I would 
wait and let circumstances decide. The gardener 
was away attending to his duties ; but his wife was 
there, and when she came forward, with a frank, 
42 


A BIT OF ADVICE 


cheery greeting, I instantly decided that I had had a 
lesson. I thanked her, as earnestly as I knew how, 
for what she had done for me, and then I added : 

“ Yon and yonr husband have treated me with 
such kind hospitality that I am not going to offer 
you anything in return for what you have done.” 

“You would have hurt us, sir, if you had,” 
said she. 

Then, in order to change the subject, I spoke of the 
honor which had been bestowed upon me by being 
allowed to wear the Duke’s dressing-gown. She 
smiled, and replied: 

“ Honors would always be easy for you, sir, if you 
only chose to take them.” 

As I rode away I thought that the last remark of 
the gardener’s wife seemed to show a mental bright¬ 
ness above her station, although I did not know 
exactly what she meant. “ Can it be,” I asked my¬ 
self, “ that she fancies that good family, six feet of 
athletic muscle, and no money would be considered 
sufficient to make matrimonial honors easy on that 
estate ? ” If such an idea had come into her head, it 
certainly was a very foolish one, and I determined to 
drive it from my mind by thinking of something 
else. 

Suddenly I slackened my speed. I stopped and 
put one foot to the ground. What a hard-hearted 
wretch I thought myself to be ! Here I was think¬ 
ing of all sorts of nonsense and speeding away with¬ 
out a thought of the young girl who had hurt herself 
the day before and who had been helped by me to 
her home ! She lived but a few miles back, and I 
had determined, the evening before, to run down and 

43 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


see how she was getting on before starting on my 
day’s journey. 

I turned and went bowling back over the road on 
which I had been so terribly drenched the previous 
afternoon. In a very little while my bicycle was 
leaning against the fence of the pretty house by the 
roadside, and I had entered the front yard. The 
slender girl was sitting on the piazza behind some 
vines. When she saw me she quickly closed the 
book she was reading, drew one foot from a little 
stool, and rose to meet me. There was more color on 
her face than I had supposed would be likely to find 
its way there, and her bright eyes showed that she 
was not only surprised but glad to see me. 

“I thought you were ever so far on your jour¬ 
ney ! ” she said. “And how did you get through 
that awful storm?” 

“I want to know first about your foot,” I said. 
“How is that?” 

“My own opinion is,” she answered, “that it is nearly 
well. Mother knew exactly what to do for it; she 
wrapped it in wet cloths and dry cloths, and this 
morning I scarcely think of it. But there is one 
thing I want to tell you before you meet father and 
mother—for they want to see you, I know. We 
talked a great deal about you last night. You may 
have thought it strange I told you about the peas, 
but I had to do it to explain why I could not ask 
you to stop. How I want to tell you that this acci¬ 
dent made everything all right. As soon as father 
and mother knew that I was hurt they forgot every¬ 
thing else, and neither of them remembered that 
there was such a thing as a pea-vine in the world. It 
44 


A BIT OF ADVICE 


really seems as if my tumble was a most lucky thing. 
And now you must come in. They will never for¬ 
give me if I let you go away without seeing them.” 

The mother, a pleasant little woman, full of cheer¬ 
ful gratitude to me for having done so much for her 
daughter, and the father, tall and slender, hurrying 
in from the garden, his face beaming with a friendly 
enthusiasm, apologizing for the mud on his clothes, 
and almost in the same breath telling me of the obli¬ 
gations under which I had placed him, both seemed 
to me at the first glance to be such kind, simple- 
hearted, simple-mannered people that I could not 
help contrasting this family with the one under whose 
roof I had passed the night. 

I spent half an hour with these good people, pa¬ 
tiently listening to their gratitude and to their deep 
regrets that I had been allowed to go on in the storm ; 
but I succeeded in allaying their friendly regrets by 
assuring them that it would have been impossible to 
keep me from going on, so certain had I been that I 
could reach the little town of Vernon before the storm 
grew violent. Then I was obliged to tell them that I 
did not reach Vernon, and how I had spent the 
night. 

“With the Putneys ! ” exclaimed the mother. “I 
am sure you could not have been entertained in a 
finer house! ” 

They asked me many questions and I told them 
many things, and I soon discovered that they took a 
generous interest in the lives of other people. They 
spoke of the good this rich family had done in the 
neighborhood during the building of their great house 
and the improvement of their estate, and not a word 
45 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


did I hear of ridicule or scandalous comment, although 
in good truth there was opportunity enough for it. 

The young lady asked me if I had seen Miss Put¬ 
ney, and when I replied that I had, she inquired if I 
did not think that she was a very pretty girl. “I do 
not know her,” she said, “but I have often seen her 
when she was out driving. I do not believe there is 
any one in this part of the country who dresses better 
than she does.” 

I laughed, and told her that I thought I knew some¬ 
body who dressed much finer even than Miss Putney, 
and then I described the incident of the Duke’s dress¬ 
ing-gown. This delighted them all, and before I left 
I was obliged to give every detail of my gorgeous 
attire. 

It was about eleven o’clock when at last I tore my¬ 
self away from this most attractive little family. To 
live as they lived, to be interested in the things that 
interested them,—for the house seemed filled with 
books and pictures,—to love nature, to love each other, 
and to think well of their fellow-beings, even of the 
super-rich, seemed to me to be an object for which a 
man of my temperament should be willing to strive 
and thankful to win. After meeting her parents I 
did not wonder that I had thought the slender girl 
so honest-hearted and so lovable. It was true that I 
had thought that. 


46 


CHAPTER V 


THE LADY AND THE CAVALIER 

The day was fine, and the landscape lay clean and 
sharply defined under the blue sky and white clouds. 
I sped along in a cheerful mood, well pleased with 
what my good cycle had so far done for me. Again I 
passed the open gate of the Putney estate, and glanced 
through it at the lodge. I saw no one, and was glad 
of it—better pleased, perhaps, than I could have 
given good reason for. When I had gone on a few 
hundred yards I was suddenly startled by a voice—a 
female voice. 

“Well, well!” cried some one on my right, and 
turning, I saw, above a low wall, the head and shoul¬ 
ders of the young lady with the dark eyes with whom 
I had parted an hour or so before. A broad hat shaded 
her face, her eyes were very dark and very wide 
open, and I saw some of her beautiful teeth, although 
she was not smiling or laughing. It was plain that 
she had not come down there to see me pass ; she was 
genuinely astonished. I dismounted and approached 
the wall. 

“I thought you were miles and miles on your 
way ! ” said she. It occurred to me that I had re¬ 
cently heard a remark very like this, and yet the 
47 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


words, as they came from the slender girl and from 
this one, seemed to have entirely different meanings. 
She was desirous, earnestly desirous, to know how I 
came to be passing this place at this time, when I had 
left their gate so long before, and, as I was not un¬ 
willing to gratify her curiosity, I told her the whole 
story of the accident the day before, and of every¬ 
thing which had followed it. 

“And you went all the way back,” she said, “to in¬ 
quire after that Burton girl f ” 

“Do you know her? ” I asked. 

“No,” she said, “I do not know her $ but I have 
seen her often, and I know all about her family. 
They seem to be of such little consequence, one way 
or the other, that I can scarcely understand how 
things could so twist themselves that you should con¬ 
sider it necessary to go back there this morning be¬ 
fore you really started on your day’s journey.” 

I do not remember what I said, but it was some¬ 
thing commonplace, no doubt; but I imagined I per¬ 
ceived a little pique in the young lady. Of course I 
did not object to this, for nothing could be more flat¬ 
tering to a young man than the exhibition of such a 
feeling on an occasion such as this. 

But if she felt any pique she quickly brushed it out 
of sight, for, as I have said before, she was a young 
woman who had great command of herself. Of course 
I said to her that I was very glad to have this chance 
of seeing her again, and she answered, with a laugh : 

“If you really are glad, you ought to thank the 
Burton girl. This is one of my favorite walks. The 
path runs along inside the wall for a considerable 
distance and then turns around the little hill over 
48 


THE LADY AND THE CAVALIER 


there, and so leads back to the house. When I hap¬ 
pened to look over the wall and saw you, I was truly 
surprised.” 

The ground was lower on the outside of the wall 
than on the inside, and as I stood and looked almost 
into the eyes of this girl, as she leaned with her 
arms upon the smooth top of the wall, the idea which 
the gardener’s wife put into my head came into it 
again. This was a beautiful face, and the expression 
upon it was different from anything I had seen 
there before. Her surprise had disappeared, her 
pique had gone, but a very great interest in the in¬ 
cident of my passing this spot at the moment of her 
being there was plainly evident. As I gazed at her 
my blood ran warmer through my veins, and there 
came upon me a feeling of the olden time—of the 
days when the brave cavalier rode up to the spot 
where, waiting for him, his lady sat upon her im¬ 
patient jennet. 

Without the least hesitation, I asked: 

“Do you ride a wheel? ” 

She looked wonderingly at me for a moment, and 
then broke into a laugh. 

“Why on earth do you ask such a question as that? 
I have a bicycle, but I am not a very good rider, and 
I never venture out upon the public road by my¬ 
self.” 

“You shouldn’t think of such a thing,” said I; and 
then I stood silent, and my mind showed me two 
young people, each mounted, not upon a swift steed, 
but upon a far swifter pair of wheels, skimming on¬ 
ward through the summer air, still rolling on, on, on, 
through country lanes and woodland roads, laughing 
49 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


at pursuit if they heard the trampling of eager hoofs 
behind them, with never a telegraph wire to stretch 
menacingly above them, and so on, on, on, their eyes 
sparkling, their hearts beating high with youthful 
hope. 

Again, through the tender mists of the afternoon, I 
saw them returning from some secluded Gretna Green 
to bend their knees and bow their heads before the 
lord of the fair bride’s home. 

When all this had passed through my brain, I 
wondered how such a pair would be received. I 
knew the gardener and his wife would welcome them, 
to begin with ; Brownster would be very glad to see 
them j and I believe the mother would stand with 
tears of joy and open arms, in whatever quiet room 
she might feel free to await them. Moreover, when 
the sterner parent heard my tale and read my pedi¬ 
gree, might he not consider good name on the one 
side an equivalent for good money on the other? 

I looked up at her; she did not ask me what I had 
been thinking about nor remark upon my silence. 
She, too, had been wrapped in revery ; her face was 
grave. She raised her arms from the wall and stood 
up. 

It was plainly time for me to do something, and 
she decided the point for me by slightly moving away 
from the wall. u Sometime, when you are riding out 
from Walford,” she said, “we should be glad to have 
you stop and take luncheon. Father likes to have 
people at luncheon.” 

“I should be delighted to do so,” said 1; and if she 
had asked me to delay my journey and take luncheon 
with them that day I think I should have accepted 
50 


THE LADY AND THE CAVALIER 


the invitation. But she did not do that, and she was 
not a young lady who would stand too long by a pub¬ 
lic road talking to a young man. She smiled very 
sweetly and held out her hand over the wall. “ Good- 
by again/’ she said. As I took her hand I felt very 
much inclined to press it warmly, but I refrained. 
Her grasp was firm and friendly, and I would have 
liked very much to know whether or not it was more 
so than was her custom. 

I was mounting my wheel when she called to me 
again. “Now, I suppose,” she said, ‘you are going 
straight on ? ” 

“Oh, yes,” I replied, with emphasis ; “straight on.” 

“And the name of the hotel where you will stay 
to-night,” s^id she, “it is the Cheltenham. I forgot it 
when I spoke to you before. I do not believe, really 
it is more than three miles beyond the other little 
place where you thought of stopping.” 

Then she walked away from the wall and I mounted. 
I moved very slowly onward, and as I turned my head 
I saw that a row of straggling bushes which grew close 
to the wall were now between her and me. But I 
also saw, or thought I saw, between the leaves and 
boughs, that her face was toward me, and that she 
was waving her handkerchief. If I had been sure of 
that, I think I should have jumped over the wall, 
pushed through the bushes, and should have asked 
her to give me that handkerchief, that I might fasten 
it on the front of my cap as, in olden days, a knight 
going forth to his adventures bound upon his helmet 
the glove of his lady-love. 

But I was not sure of it, and seized by a sudden 
energetic excitement, I started off at a tremendous 
51 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


rate of speed. The ground flew backward beneath 
me as if I had been standing on the platform of a rail¬ 
road car. Not far ahead of me there came from a 
side road into the main avenue on which I was travel¬ 
ling a Scorcher, scorching. As he spun away in front 
of me, his body bent forward until his back was nearly 
horizontal, and his green-stockinged legs striking out 
behind him with the furious rapidity of a great frog 
trying to push his head into the mud, he turned back 
his little face with a leer of triumphant derision at 
every moving thing which might happen to be behind 
him. 

At the sight of this green-legged Scorcher my blood 
rose, and it was with me as if I had heard the clang 
of trumpets and the clash of arms. I leaned slightly 
forward; I struck out powerfully, swiftly, and stead¬ 
ily ; I gained upon the Scorcher; I sent into his 
emerald legs a thrill of startled fear, as if he had 
been a terrified hare bounding madly away from a 
pursuing foe; and I passed him as if I had been 
a swift falcon swooping by a quarry unworthy of his 
talons. 

On, on I sped, not deigning even to look back. The 
same spirit possessed me as that which fired the 
hearts of the olden knights. I would have been glad 
to meet with another Scorcher, and yet another, that 
for the sake of my fair lady I might engage with each 
and humble his pride in the dust. 

“It is true, 77 1 said to myself, with an inward laugh, 
“I carry no glove or delicate handkerchief bound 
upon my visor— 77 but at this point my mind wan¬ 
dered. I went more slowly, and at last I stopped and 
sat down under the shade of a wayside tree. I thought 
52 


THE LADY AND THE CAVALIER 


for a few minutes, and then I said to myself, “It seems 
to me this would he a good time to take one of those 
capsules,” and I took one. I then fancied that per¬ 
haps I ought to take two, but I contented’ myself 
with one. 


53 


CHAPTER VI 


THE HOLLY SPRIG INN 

In the middle of the day I stopped at Vernon, and 
the afternoon was well advanced when I came in sight 
of a little wayside house with a broad unfenced green 
in front of it, and a swinging sign which told the 
traveller that this was the “Holly Sprig Inn. 77 

I dismounted on the opposite side of the road and 
gazed upon the smoothly shaven greensward in front 
of the little inn; upon the pretty upper windows 
peeping out from their frames of leaves; upon the 
queerly shaped projections of the building ; upon the 
low portico which shaded the doorway ; and upon the 
gentle stream of blue smoke which rose from the 
great gray chimney. 

Then I turned and looked over the surrounding 
country. There were broad meadows slightly de¬ 
scending to a long line of trees, between which I could 
see the glimmering of water. On the other side of 
the road, and extending back of the inn, there were 
low, forest-crowned hills. Then my eyes, returning 
to nearer objects, fell upon an old-fashioned garden, 
with bright flowers and rows of box, which lay beyond 
the house. 

“Why on earth, 77 I thought, “should I pass such a 
54 


THE HOLLY SPRIG INN 


place as this and go on to the Cheltenham, with its 
waiters in coat-tails, its nursemaids, and its rows of 
people on piazzas'? She could not know my tastes, 
and perhaps she had thought but little on the sub¬ 
ject, and had taken her ideas from her father. He is 
just the man to be contented with nothing else than 
a vast sprawling hotel, with disdainful menials ex¬ 
pecting tips.” 

I rolled my bicycle along the little path which ran 
around the green, and knocked upon the open door 
of Holly Sprig Inn. 

In a few moments a boy came into the hall. He 
was not dressed like an ordinary hotel attendant, but 
his appearance was decent, and he might have been 
a sub-clerk or a head hall-boy. 

“Can I obtain lodging here for the night?” I 
asked. 

The boy looked at me from head to foot, and an 
expression such as might be produced by too much 
lemon juice came upon his face. 

“Ho,” said he $ “we don’t take cyclers.” 

This reception was something novel to me, who had 
cycled over thousands of miles, and I was not at all 
inclined to accept it at the hands of the boy. I 
stepped into the hall. “Can I see the master of this 
house ? ” said I. 

“There ain’t none,” he answered, gruffly. 

“Well, then, I want to see whoever is in charge.” 

He looked as if he were about to say that he was 
in charge, but he had no opportunity for such im¬ 
pertinence. A female figure came into the hall and 
advanced toward me. She stopped in an attitude of 
interrogation. 


55 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“I was just inquiring/’ I said, with a bow—for I 
saw that the new-comer was not a servant—“if I 
could be accommodated here for the night, but the 
boy informed me that cyclers are not received here.” 

“What! ” she exclaimed, and turned as if she 
would speak to the boy, but he had vanished. “That 
is a mistake, sir,” she said to me. “Very few wheel¬ 
men do stop ;here, as they prefer a hotel farther 
on, but we are glad to entertain them when they 
come.” 

It was not very light in the hall in which we stood, 
but I could see that this lady was young, that she was 
of medium size, and good-looking. 

“Will you walk in, sir, and register!” she said. 
“I will have your wheel taken around to the back.” 

I followed her into a large apartment to the right 
of the hall—evidently a room of general assembly. 
Near the window was a desk with a great book on it. 
As I stood before this desk and she handed me a pen, 
her face was in the full light of the window, and 
glancing at it, the thought struck me that I now 
knew why Miss Putney did not wish me to stop at 
the Holly Sprig Inn. I almost laughed as I turned 
away my head to write my name. I was amused, 
and at the same time I could not help feeling highly 
complimented. It cannot but be grateful to the feel¬ 
ings of a young man to find that a very handsome 
woman objects to his making the acquaintance of an 
extremely pretty one. 

When I laid down the pen she stepped up and 
looked at my name and address. 

“Oh,” said she, “you are the schoolmaster at Wal- 
ford!” She seemed to be pleased by this discovery, 
56 


THE HOLLY SPRIG INN 


and smiled in a very engaging way as she said, “I am 
much interested in that school, for I received a great 
part of my education there.” 

“Indeed ! ” said I, very much surprised. “But I 
do not exactly understand. It is a boys’ school.” 

“I know that,” she answered, “but both boys and 
girls used to go there. How the girls have a school 
of their own.” 

As she spoke I could not help contrasting in my 
mind what the school must have been with what it 
was now. 

She stepped to the door and told a woman who 
was just entering the room to show me Ho. 2. The 
woman said something which I did not hear, although 
her tones indicated surprise, and then conducted me 
to my room. 

This was an exceedingly pleasant chamber on the 
first floor at the back of the house. It was furnished 
far better than the quarters generally allotted to me 
in country inns, or, in fact, in hostelries of any kind. 
There was great comfort and even simple elegance in 
its appointments. 

I would have liked to ask the maid some questions, 
but she was an elderly woman who looked as if she 
might be the mother of the lemon-juice boy, and as 
she said not a word to me while she made a few 
arrangements in the room, I did not feel emboldened 
to say anything to her. 

When I left my room and went out on the little 
porch, I soon came to the conclusion that this was not 
a house of great resort. I saw nobody in front and I 
heard nobody within. There seemed to be an air of 
quiet greenness about the surroundings, and the little 
57 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


porch was a charming place in which to sit and look 
upon the evening landscape. 

After a time the boy came to tell me that supper 
was ready. He did so as if he were informing me 
that it was time to take medicine and he had just 
taken his. 

Supper awaited me in a very pleasant room, through 
the open windows of which there came a gentle breeze 
which made me know that there was a flower-garden 
not far away. The table was a small one, round, and 
on it there was supper for one person. I seated 
myself, and the elderly woman waited on me. I was 
so grateful that the boy was not my attendant that my 
heart warmed toward her, and I thought she might 
not consider it much out of the way if I said something. 

“Did I arrive after the regular supper-time ? ” I 
asked. “I am sorry if I put the establishment to any 
inconvenience.” 

“What’s inconvenience in your own house isn’t 
anything of the kind in a tavern,” she said. “We’re 
used to that. But it doesn’t matter to-day. You’re 
the only transient; that is, that eats here,” she added. 

I wanted very much to ask something about the lady 
who had gone to school in Walford, but I thought it 
would be well to approach that subject by degrees. 

“Apparently,” said I, “your house is not full.” 

“No,” said she, “not at this precise moment of time. 
Do you want some more teal ” 

The tone in which she said this made me feel sure 
she was the mother of the boy, and when she had given 
me the tea, and looked around in a general way to see 
that I was provided with what else I needed, she left 
the room. 


58 


THE HOLLY SPRIG INN 


After supper I looked into the large room where I 
had registered $ it was lighted, and was very comfort¬ 
ably furnished with easy-chairs and a lounge, but it 
was an extremely lonely place, and, lighting a cigar, 
I went out for a walk. It was truly a beautiful coun¬ 
try, and, illumined by the sunset sky, with all its forms 
and colors softened by the growing dusk, it was more 
charming to me than it had been by daylight. 

As I returned to the inn I noticed a man standing 
at the entrance of a driveway which appeared to lead 
back to the stable-yards. “Here is some one who may 
talk,” I thought, and I stopped. 

“This ought to be a good country for sport,” I said— 
“fishing, and that sort of thing.” 

“You’re stoppin’ here for the night'? ” he asked. I 
presumed from his voice and appearance that he was 
a stable-man, and from his tone that he was disap¬ 
pointed that I had not brought a horse with me. 

I assented to his question, and he said : 

“I never heard of no fishin’. When people want to 
fish, they go to a lake about ten miles furder on.” 

“Oh, I do not care particularly about fishing,” I 
said, “but there must be a good many pleasant roads 
about here.” 

“There’sThis one,” said he. “The people on wheels 
keep to it.” With this he turned and walked slowly 
toward the back of the house. 

“A lemon-loving lot! ” thought I, and as I ap¬ 
proached the porch I saw that the lady who had gone 
to school at Walford was standing there. I did not 
believe she had been eating lemons, and I stepped for¬ 
ward quickly for fear that she should depart before I 
reached her. 


59 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“Been taking a walk % v she said, pleasantly. There 
was something in the general air of this young woman 
which indicated that she should have worn a little 
apron with pockets, and that her hands should have 
been jauntily thrust into those pockets ; but her dress 
included nothing of the sort. 

The hall lamp was now lighted, and I could see that 
her attire was extremely neat and becoming. Her 
face was in shadow, but she had beautiful hair of a 
ruddy brown. I asked myself if she were the “lady 
clerk ” of the establishment, or the daughter of the 
keeper of the inn. She was evidently a person in 
some authority, and one with whom it would be proper 
for me to converse, and as she had given me a very 
good opportunity to open conversation, I lost no time 
in doing so. 

“ And so you used to live in Walford! ” I said. 

“Oh, yes,” she replied, and then she began to speak 
of the pleasant days she had spent in that village. As 
she talked I endeavored to discover from her words 
who she was and what was her position. I did not 
care to discuss Walford. I wanted to talk about the 
Holly Sprig Inn, but I could not devise a courteous 
question which would serve my purpose. 

Presently our attention was attracted by the sound 
of singing at the corner of the little lawn most distant 
from the house. It was growing dark, and the form of 
the singer could barely be discerned upon a bench 
under a great oak. The voice was that of a man, and 
his song was an Italian air from one of Verdi’s operas. 
He sang in a low tone, as if he were simply amusing 
himself and did not wish to disturb the rest of the 
world. 


60 


THE HOLLY SPRIG INN 


“That must be the Italian who is stopping here for 
the night,” she said. “We do not generally take 
such people; but he spoke so civilly, and said it was 
so hard to get lodging for his bear—” 

“His bear ! ” I exclaimed. 

“Oh, yes,” she answered, with a little langh; “he 
has a bear with him. I suppose it dances, and so 
makes a living for its master. Anyway, I said he 
might stay and lodge with onr stable-man. He would 
sing very well if he had a better voice—don’t you 
think so?” 

“We do not generally accommodate,” “I said he 
might stay”—these were phrases which I turned over 
in my mind. If she were the lady clerk she might 
say “we,”—even the boy said “we,”—but “I said he 
might stay ” was different. A daughter of a landlord 
or a landlady might say that. 

I made a remark about the difficulty of finding 
lodging for man and beast, if the beast happened to be 
a bear, and I had scarcely finished it when from the 
house there came a shrill voice, flavored with lemon 
without any sugar, and it said, “Mrs. Chester ! ” 

“Excuse me,” said the young lady, and immediately 
she went indoors. 

Here was a revelation ! Mrs. Chester ! Strange to 
say, I had not thought of her as a married woman; 
and yet, now that I recalled her manner of perfect 
self-possession, she did suggest the idea of a satisfied 
young wife. And Mr. Chester—what of him? Could 
it be possible? Hardly. There was nothing about 
her to suggest a widow. 


61 


CHAPTER VII 


MRS. CHESTER IS TROUBLED 

I sat on that porch a good while, but she did not 
come out again. Why should she? Nobody came 
out, and within I could hear no sound of voices. 1 
might certainly recommend this inn as a quiet place. 
The Italian and the crickets continued singing and 
chirping, but they only seemed to make the scene 
more lonely. 

I went indoors. On the left hand of the hall was 
a door which I had not noticed before, but which 
was now open. There was a light within, and I saw 
a prettily furnished parlor. There was a table with 
a lamp on it, and by the table sat the lady, Mrs. 
Chester. I involuntarily stopped, and, looking up, 
she invited me to come in. Instantly I accepted the 
invitation, but with a sort of an apology for the 
intrusion. 

“Oh, this is the public parlor,” she said, “although 
everything about this house seems private at present. 
We generally have families staying with us in the 
summer, but last week nearly all of them went away 
to the sea-shore. In a few days, however, we expect 
to be full again.” 

She immediately began to talk about Walford, for 
62 



MRS. CHESTER IS TROUBLED 


evidently the subject interested her, and I answered 
all her questions as well as I could. 

“You may know that my husband taught that 
school. I was his scholar before I became his wife.” 

I had heard of a Mr. Chester who, before me, had 
taught the school, but, although the information had 
not interested me at the time, now it did. I wished 
very much to ask what Mr. Chester was doing at 
present, but I waited. 

“I went to boarding-school after I left Walford,” 
said she, “and so for a time lost sight of the village, 
although I have often visited it since.” 

“How long is it since Mr. Chester gave up the 
school there ? ” I asked. 

This proved to be a very good question indeed. 
“About six years,” she said. “He gave it up just 
before we were married. He did not like teaching 
school, and as the death of his father put him into 
the possession of some money, he was able to change 
his mode of life. It was by accident that we settled 
here as innkeepers. We happened to pass the place, 
and Mr. Chester was struck by its beauty. It was 
not an inn then, but he thought it would make a 
charming one, and he also thought that this sort of 
life would suit him exactly. He was a student, a 
great reader, and a lover of rural sports—such as 
fishing and all that.” 

“Was.” Here was a dim light. “Was” must mean 
that Mr. Chester had been. If he were living, he 
would still be a reader and a student. 

“Did he find the new life all that he expected?” 
I said, hesitating a little at the word “did,” as it 
was not impossible that I might be mistaken. 

63 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“Oh, yes, and more. I think the two years he spent 
here were the happiest of his life.” 

I was not yet quite sure about the state of affairs; 
he might be in an insane asylum, or he might be a 
hopeless invalid up-stairs. 

“If he had lived,” she continued, “I suppose this 
would have been a wonderfully beautiful place, for 
he was always making improvements. But it is four 
years now since his death, and in that time there has 
been very little change in the inn.” 

I do not remember what answer I made to this 
remark, but I gazed out upon the situation as if it 
were an unrolled map. 

“When you wrote your name in the book,” she 
said, “it seemed to me as if you had brought a note 
of introduction, and I am sure I am very glad to be 
acquainted with you, for, you know, you are my hus¬ 
band’s successor. He did not like teaching, but he 
was fond of his scholars, and he always had a great 
fancy for school-teachers. Whenever one of them 
stopped here—which happened two or three times— 
he insisted that he should be put into our best room, 
if it happened to be vacant, and that is the reason I 
have put you into it to-day.” 

This was charming. She was such an extremely 
agreeable young person that it was delightful for 
me to think of myself in any way as her husband’s 
successor. 

There was a step at the door. I turned and saw 
the elderly servant. 

“Mrs. Chester,” she said, “I’m goin’ up,” and every 
word was flavored with citric acid. 

“Good night,” said Mrs. Chester, taking up her 
64 


MRS. CHESTER IS TROUBLED 


basket and her work. “You know, you need not 
retire until you wish to do so. There is a room op¬ 
posite, where gentlemen smoke.” 

I did not enter the big, lonely room. I went to my 
own chamber, which, I had just been informed, was 
the best in the house. I sat down in an easy-chair 
by the open window. I looked up to the twinkling 
stars. 

Reading, studying, fishing, beautiful country, and 
all that. And he did not like school-teaching ! Ho 
wonder he was happier here than he had ever been 
before! My eyes wandered around the tastefully 
furnished room. “Her husband’s successor,” I said to 
myself, pondering. “He did not like school-teaching, 
and he was so happy here.” Of course he was happy. 
“Died and left him some money.” There was no one 
to leave me any money, but I had saved some for the 
time when I should devote myself entirely to my 
profession. Profession—I thought. After all, what 
is there in a profession? Slavery; anxiety. And he 
chose a life of reading, studying, fishing, and every¬ 
thing else. 

I turned to the window and again looked up into 
the sky. There was a great star up there, and it 
seemed to wink cheerfully at me as the words came 
into my mind, “her husband’s successor.” 

When I opened my little valise, before going to 
bed, I saw the box the doctor’s daughter had given me. 

“After sitting so long at the open window,”-thought 
I, “it might be well to take one of these capsules,” and 
I swallowed one. 

When I was called to breakfast the next morning 
I saw that the table was laid with covers for two. In 
65 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


a moment my hostess entered and bade me good 
morning. We sat down at the table ; and the elderly 
woman waited. I could now see that her face was the 
color of a shop-worn lemon. 

As for the lady who had gone to school at Walford, 
—I wondered what place in the old school-room she 
had occupied,—she was more charming than ever. 
Her manner was so cordial and cheerful that I could 
not doubt that she considered the entry of my name 
in her book as a regular introduction. She asked me 
about my plan of travel, how far I would go in a day, 
and that sort of thing. The elderly woman was very 
grim, and somehow or other I did not take very much 
interest in my plan of travel, but the meal was an 
extremely pleasant one for all that. 

The natural thing for me to do after I finished my 
breakfast was to pay my bill and ride away, but I 
felt no inclination for anything of the sort. In fact, 
the naturalness of departure did not strike me. I 
went out on the little porch and gazed upon the 
bright, fresh morning landscape, and as I did so I 
asked myself why I should mount my bicycle and 
wheel away over hot and dusty roads, leaving all this 
cool, delicious beauty behind me. 

What could I find more enjoyable than this? Why 
should I not spend a few days at this inn, reading, 
studying, fishing? Here I wondered why that man 
told me such a lie about the fishing. If I wanted to 
exercise on my wheel I felt sure there were pretty 
roads hereabout. I had plenty of time before me— 
my whole vacation. Why should I be consumed by 
this restless desire to get on? 

I could not help smiling as I thought of my some- 
66 


MRS. CHESTER IS TROUBLED 

what absurd fancies of the night before ; but they 
were pleasant fancies, and I did not wonder that they 
had come to me. It certainly is provocative of pleas¬ 
ant fancies to have an exceedingly attractive young 
woman talk of you in any way as her husband’s suc¬ 
cessor. 

I could not make up my mind what I ought to do, 
and I walked back into the hall. I glanced into the 
parlor, but it was unoccupied. Then I went into the 
large room on the right; no one was there, and I 
stood by the window trying to make up my mind in 
regard to proposing a brief stay at the inn. 

It really did not seem necessary to give the matter 
much thought. Here was a place of public enter¬ 
tainment, and, as I was one of the public, why should 
I not be entertained? I had stopped at many a road¬ 
side hostelry, and in each one of them I knew I would 
be welcome to stay as long as I was willing to pay. 

Still, there was something, some sort of an unde¬ 
fined consciousness, which seemed to rise in the way 
of an offhand proposal to stay at this inn for several 
days, when I had clearly stated that I wished to stop 
only for the night. 

While I was still turning over this matter in my 
mind Mrs. Chester came into the room. I had ex¬ 
pected her. The natural thing for her to do was to 
come in and receive the amount I owed her for her 
entertainment of me, but as I looked at her I could 
not ask her for my bill. It seemed to me that such a 
thing would shock her sensibilities. Moreover, I did 
not want her bill. 

It was plain enough, however, that she expected 
me to depart, for she asked me where I proposed to 
67 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 

stop in the middle of the day, and she suggested that 
she should have a light luncheon put up for me. She 
thought probably a wheelman would like that sort of 
thing, for then he could stop and rest wherever it 
suited him. 

“Speaking of stopping,” said I, “I am very glad 
that I did not do as I was advised to do and go on to 
the Cheltenham. I do not know anything about that 
hotel, but I am sure it is not so charming as this de¬ 
lightful little inn with its picturesque surroundings.” 

“I am glad you did not,” she answered. “Who 
advised you to go on to the Cheltenham ? ” 

“Miss Putney,” said I. “Her father’s place is be¬ 
tween here and Walford. I stopped there night be¬ 
fore last.” And then, as I was glad of an opportu¬ 
nity to prolong the interview, I told her the history 
of my adventures at that place. 

Mrs. Chester was amused, and I thought I might as 
well tell her how I came to be delayed on the road 
and so caught in the storm, and I related my experi¬ 
ence with Miss Burton. I would have been glad to go 
still farther back and tell her how I came to take the 
school at Walford, and anything else she might care to 
listen to. 

When I told her about Miss Burton she sat down in 
a chair near by and iaughed heartily. 

“It is wonderfully funny,” she said, “that you should 
have met those two young ladies and should then have 
stopped here.” 

“You know them? ” I said, promptly taking another 
chair. 

“Oh, yes,” she answered, “I know them both; and, as 
I have mentioned that your meeting with them seemed 
68 


MRS. CHESTER IS TROUBLED 


funny to me, I suppose I ought to tell you the reason. 
Some time ago a photographer in Walford, who has 
taken a portrait of me and also of Miss Putney and 
Miss Burton, took it into his head to print the three on 
one card and expose them for sale with a ridiculous 
inscription under them. This created a great deal of 
talk, and Miss Putney made the photographer destroy 
his negative and all the cards he had on hand. After 
that we were talked about as a trio, and I expect a 
good deal of fun was made of us. And now it seems 
a little odd—does it not!—that you have become ac¬ 
quainted with all the members of this trio as soon as 
you left Walford. But I must not keep you in this 
way.” And she rose. 

Now was my opportunity to make known my de¬ 
sire to be kept, but before I could do so the boy hur¬ 
riedly came into the room. 

“The Dago wants to see you,” he said. “He’s in an 
awful hurry.” 

“Excuse me,” said Mrs. Chester. “It is that Italian 
who was singing outside last night. I thought he had 
gone. Would you mind waiting a few minutes!” 

It was getting harder and harder to enunciate my 
proposition to make a sojourn at the inn. I wished 
that I had spoken sooner. It is so much easier to do 
things promptly. 

While I was waiting the elderly woman came in. 
“Do you want the boy to take your little bag out 
and strap it on ! ” said she. 

Evidently there was no want of desire to speed the 
departing guest. “Oh, I will attend to that myself,” 
said I, but I made no step to do it. When my 
hostess came back I wanted to be there. 

69 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


Presently she did come back. She ran in hur¬ 
riedly, and her face was flushed. “Here is a very 
bad piece of business,” she said. “That man’s bear 
has eaten the tire off one of your wheels ! ” 

“What! ” I exclaimed, and my heart bounded 
within me. Here, perhaps, was the solution of all 
my troubles. If by any happy chance my bicycle 
had been damaged, of course I could not go on. 

“Come and see,” she said, and, following her 
through the back hall door, we entered a large, en¬ 
closed yard. Hot far from the house was a shed, and 
in front of this lay my bicycle on its side in an 
apparently disabled condition. An Italian, greatly 
agitated, was standing by it. He was hatless, and his 
tangled black hair hung over his swarthy face. At 
the other end of the yard was a whitish-brown bear 
not very large, and chained to a post. 

I approached my bicycle, earnestly hoping that the 
bear had been attempting to ride it, but I found that 
he had been trying to do something very different. 
He had torn the pneumatic tire from one of the 
wheels, and nearly the whole of it was lying scat¬ 
tered about in little bits upon the ground. 

“How did this happen?” I said to the Italian, 
feeling very much inclined to give him a dollar for 
the good offices of the beast. 

The man began immediately to pour out an ex¬ 
planation upon me. His English was as badly broken 
as the torn parts of my tire, but I had no trouble in 
understanding. The bear had got loose in the night. 
He had pulled up a little post to which he had been 
chained. The man had not known it was such a 
weak post. The bear was never muzzled at night. 

70 


MRS. CHESTER IS TROUBLED 


He had gone about looking for something to eat. He 
was very fond of India-rubber—or, as the man called 
it, “Injer-rub.” He always ate up India-rubber 
shoes wherever he could find them. He would eat 
them off a man’s feet if the man should be asleep. 
He liked the taste of Injer-rub. He did not swallow 
it. He dropped it all about in little bits. 1 , 

Then the man sprang toward me and seized the 
injured wheel. “See ! ” he exclaimed. “He eat your 
Injer-rub, but he no break your machine ! ” 

This was very true. The wheel did not seem to 
be injured, but still I could not travel without a tire. 
This was the most satisfactory feature of the affair. 
If he and I had been alone together I would have 
handed the man two dollars, and told him to go in 
peace with his bear and give himself no more trouble. 

But we were not alone. The stable-man who had 
lied to me about the fishing was there 5 the boy who 
had lied to me about the reception of cyclers was 
there; the lemon-faced woman was there, standing 
close to Mrs. Chester; and there were two maids 
looking out of the window of the kitchen. 

“This is very bad indeed!” said Mrs. Chester, 
addressing the Italian. “You have damaged this 
gentleman’s wheel, and you must pay him for it.” 

How the Italian began to tear his hair. Hever 
before had I seen any one tear his hair. More than 
that, he shed tears, and declared he had no money. 
After he had paid his bill he would not have a cent 
in the world. His bear had ruined him. He was in 
despair. 

“What are you going to do?” said Mrs. Chester to 
me. “You cannot use your bicycle.” 

71 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


Before I could answer, tlie elderly woman ex¬ 
claimed : “You ought to come in, Mrs. Chester! This 
is no place for you ! Suppose that beast should break 
loose again! Let the gentleman settle it with the 
man” 

I do not think my hostess wanted to go, but she 
accompanied her grim companion into the house. 

“I suppose there is no place near here where I can 
have a new tire put on this wheel f ” said I to the 
stable-man. 

“Not nearer than Waterton,” he replied; “but we 
could take you and your machine there in a wagon.” 

“That’s so,” said the boy. “I’ll drive.” 

I glared upon the two fellows as if they had been a 
couple of fiends who were trying to put a drop of 
poison into my cup of joy. To be dolefully driven to 
Waterton by that boy ! What a picture ! How dif¬ 
ferent from my picture! 

The Italian sat down on the ground and embraced 
his knees with his arms. He moaned and groaned, 
and declared over and over again that he was ruined ; 
that he had no money to pay. 

In regard to him my mind was made up. I would 
forgive him his debt and send him away with my 
blessing, even if I found no opportunity of rewarding 
him for his great service to me. 

I would go in and speak to Mrs. Chester about it. 
Of course it would not be right to do anything with¬ 
out consulting her, and now I could boldly tell her 
that it would suit me very well to stop at the inn 
until my wheel could be sent away and repaired. 

As I entered the large room the elderly woman 
came out. She was plainly in a bad humor. Mrs. 

72 


MRS. CHESTER IS TROUBLED 


Chester was awaiting me with an anxious countenance, 
evidently much more troubled about the damage to 
my bicycle than I was. I hastened to relieve her 
mind. 

“It does not matter a bit about the damage done 
by the bear,” I said. “I should not wonder if that 
wheel would be a great deal better for a new tire, any¬ 
way. And as for that doleful Italian, I do not want 
to be hard on him, even if he has a little money in his 
pocket.” 

But my remarks did not relieve her, while my 
cheerful and contented tones seemed to add to) her 
anxiety. 

“But you cannot travel,” she said, “and there is no 
place about here where you could get a new tire.” 

It was very plain that no one in this house enter¬ 
tained the idea that it would be a good thing for me 
to rest here quietly until my bicycle could be sent 
away and repaired. In fact, my first statement that I 
wished to stop but for the night was accepted with 
general approval. 

I did not deem it necessary to refer to the man’s 
offer to send me and my machine to Waterton in a 
wagon, and I was just on the point of boldly an¬ 
nouncing that I was in no hurry whatever to get on, 
and that it would suit me very well to wait here for 
a few days, when the boy burst into the room, one end 
of his little necktie flying behind him. 

“The Dago’s put! ” he shouted. “He’s put off and 
gone! ” 

We looked at him in amazement. 

“Gone ! ” I exclaimed. “Shall I go after him? Has 
he paid his bill?” 


73 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“No, you needn’t do that/’ said the boy. “He cut 
across the fields like a chipmunk—skipped right over 
the fences ! You’d never ketch him, and you needn’t 
try! He’s off for the station. I’ll tell you all about 
it,” said the boy, turning to his mistress, who had 
been too much startled to ask any questions. “When 
he went into the house”—jerking his head in my 
direction—“I was left alone with the Dago, and he 
begun to talk to me. He asked me a lot of things. 
He rattled on so I couldn’t understand half he said. 
He wanted to know how much a tire cost$ he wanted 
to know how much his bill would be, and if he’d have 
to pay for the little post that was broke. 

“Then he asked if I thought that if he’d promise to 
send you the money would the gentleman let him go 
without payin’ for the tire, and he wanted to know 
what your name was, and when I told him you hadn’t 
no husband and what your name was, he asked me to 
say it over again, and then he made me say it once 
more—the whole of itj and while I was tellin’ him 
that I’d write it down for him if he wanted to send 
you the money, he give a big jump and he stuck 
his head out like a bull. He looked so queer that I 
was gettin’ skeered; and then he says, almost whis¬ 
perin’ : ‘ I go ! I go away ! I leave my bear! If 
she sell him, that pay everything ! I come back no 
more—never ! never ! ’ 

“I saw he was goin’ to scoot, and I made a grab 
at him, but he give me a push that nearly tore my 
collar off, and away he went. You never see any¬ 
body run like he run. He was out of sight in no 
time.” 

“And he left his bear! ” she exclaimed, in horror. 

74 


MRS. CHESTER IS TROUBLED 


“What on earth am I to do with a bear?” She 
looked at me, and in spite of her annoyance and per¬ 
plexity she could not help joining me when I laughed 
outright. 


75 


CHAPTER VIII 


ORSO 

Mrs. Chester and I hurried back to the yard. 
There was the bear, sitting calmly on his haunches, 
but there was no Italian. 

“Now that his master is gone/ 7 my hostess ex¬ 
claimed, “I am afraid of him! I will not go any 
farther! Can you imagine anything that can be 
done with that beast ? ” 

I had no immediate answer to give, and I was still 
very much amused at the absurdity of the situation. 
Had any one ever before paid his bill in such fashion? 
At this moment the stable-man approached us from 
one of the outbuildings. “This is my hostler,” she 
said. “Perhaps he can suggest something.” 

“This is a bad go, ma’am,” said he. “The horse 
was out in the pasture all night, but this morning 
when I went to bring him up I couldn’t make him 
come near the stable. He smells that bear! It 
seems to drive him crazy ! ” 

“It’s awful! ” she said. “What are we going to 
do, [John? Do you think the animal will become 
dangerous when he misses his master ? ” 

“Oh, there’s nothin’ dangerous about him,” an¬ 
swered John. “I was sittin’ talkin’ to that Dago 
76 


ORSO 


last night after supper, and he says his bear’s tamer 
than a cat. He is so mild-tempered that he wouldn’t 
hurt nobody. The Dago says he sleeps close up to 
him of cold nights to keep himself warm. There 
ain’t no trouble about his bein’ dangerous, but you 
can’t bring the horse into the stable while he’s about. 
If anybody was to drive into this yard without 
knowin’, they’d be a circus, I can tell you! Horses 
can’t stand bears.” 

She looked at me in dismay. “ Couldn’t he be shot 
and buried ? ” she asked. 

I had my doubts on that point. A tame bear is a 
valuable animal, and I could not advise her to dis¬ 
pose of the property of another person in that sum¬ 
mary way. 

“But he must be got away,” she said. “We can’t 
have a bear here. He must be taken away some way 
or other. Isn’t there any place where he could be 
put until the Italian comes back ? ” 

“That Dago’s never cornin’ back,” said the boy, 
solemnly. “If you’d a-seen him scoot, you’d a-knowed 
that he was dead skeered, and would never turn up 
here no more, bear or no bear.” 

Mrs. Chester looked at me. She was greatly wor¬ 
ried, but she was also amused, and she could not help 
laughing. 

“Isn’t this a dreadful predicament?” she said. 
“What in the world am I to do?” At this moment 
there was an acidulated voice from the kitchen. 
“Mrs. Whittaker wants to see you, Mrs. Chester,” it 
cried, “right away ! ” 

“Oh, dear!” said she. “Here is more trouble! 
Mrs. Whittaker is an invalid lady who is so nervous 
77 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


that she could not sleep one night because she heard 
a man had killed a snake at the back of the barn, 
and what she will say when she hears that we have a 
bear here without a master I do not know. I must 
go to her, and I do wish you could think of some¬ 
thing that I can do ” ,* as she said this she looked at 
me as if it were a natural thing for her to rely upon 
me. For a moment it made me think of the star that 
had winked the night before. 

Mrs. Chester hurried into the house, and in com¬ 
pany with the stable-man I crossed the yard toward 
the bear. 

“You are sure he is gentle?” said I. 

“Mild as milk ! ” said the man. “I was a-playin’ 
with him last night. He’ll let you do anything with 
him! If you box his ears, he’ll lay over flat down on 
his side! ” 

When we were within a few feet of the bear he sat 
upright, dangled his fore paws in front of him, and, 
with his head on one side, he partly opened his 
mouth and lolled out his tongue. “I guess he’s beg- 
gin’ for his breakfust,” said John. 

“Can’t you get him something to eat?” I asked. 
“He ought to be fed, to begin with.” 

The man went back to the kitchen, and I walked 
slowly around the bear, looking at the chain and the 
post, and trying to see what sort of a collar was 
almost hidden under his shaggy hair. Apparently he 
seemed securely attached, and then—as he was at the 
end of his chain—I went up to him and gently patted 
one paw. He did not object to this, and turning his 
head he let his tongue loll out on the other side, 
fixing his little black eyes upon me with much ear- 
78 


ORSO 


nestness. When the man came with the pan of scraps 
from the kitchen I took it from him and placed it on 
the ground in front of the bear. Instantly the animal 
dropped to his feet and began to eat with earnest 
rapidity. 

“I wonder how much he’d take in for one meal,” 
said John, “if you’d give him all he wanted? I guess 
that Dago never let him have any more’n he could help.” 

As the bear was licking the tin pan I stood and 
looked at him. “I wonder if he would be tame with 
strangers? ” said I. “Do you suppose we could take 
him away from this post if we wanted to ? ” 

“Oh, yes,” said John. “I wouldn’t be afraid to take 
him anywheres, only there isn’t any place to take him 
to.” He then stepped quite close to the bear. “Hey, 
horsey! ” said he. “Hey, old horsey! Good old 
horsey! ” 

“Is that his name?” I asked. 

“That’s what the Dago called him,” said John. 
“Hey, horsey ! Good horsey ! ” And he stooped and 
unfastened the chain from the post. 

I imagined that the Italian had called the bear 
“Orso,” perhaps with some diminutive, but I did not 
care to discuss this. I was very much interested to 
see what the man was going to do. With the end of 
the chain in his hand, John now stepped in front of 
the bear and said, “Come along, horsey ! ” and to my 
surprise, the bear began to shamble after him as quietly 
as if he had been following his old master. “See ! ” 
cried John. “He’ll go anywheres I choose to take him !” 
and he began to lead him about the yard. 

As he approached the kitchen there came a fearful 
scream from the open window. 

79 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“Take him away! Take him away ! ” I heard in the 
shrillest accents. 

“They’re dreadfully skeered,” said John, as he led 
the hear back $ “but he wouldn’t hurt nobody ! It 
would be a good thing, though, to put his muzzle on$ 
that’s it hangin’ over there by the shed$ it’s like a 
halter, and straps up his jaws. The Dago said there 
ain’t no need for it, but he puts it on when he’s trav- 
ellin’ along the road to keep people from bein’ 
skeered.” 

“It would be well to put it on,” said I. “I wonder 
if we can get him into it ? ” 

“I guess he’d let you do anything you’d a mind to,” 
replied John, as he again fastened the chain to the 
post. 

I took down the muzzle and approached the bear. 
He did not growl, but stood perfectly still and looked 
at me. I put the muzzle over his head, and, holding 
myself in readiness to elude a sudden snap, I strapped 
up his jaws. The creature made no snap—he gazed at 
me with mild resignation. 

“As far as he goes,” said John, “he’s all right j but 
as far as everything else goes—especially horses— 
they’re all wrong. He’s got to be got rid of some way.” 

I had nothing more to say to John, and I went into 
the house. I met Mrs. Chester in the hall. 

“I have had a bad time up-stairs,” she said. “Mrs. 
Whittaker declares that she will not stay an hour in a 
house where there is a bear without a master ; but as 
she has a terrible sciatica and cannot travel, I do not 
know what she is going to do. Her trained nurse, I 
believe, is now putting on her bonnet to depart.” 

As she spoke, the joyful anticipation of a few days 
80 


ORSO 


at the Holly Sprig Inn began to fade away. I did not 
blame the bear as the present cause of my disappoint¬ 
ment. He had done all he could for me. It was his 
wretched master who had done the mischief by run¬ 
ning away and leaving him. But no matter what had 
happened, I saw my duty plainly before me. I had 
not been encouraged to stay, but it is possible that I 
might have done so without encouragement; but now 
I saw that I must go. The Fates, who, as I had 
hoped, had compelled my stay, now compelled my 
departure. 

“Do not give yourself another thought upon the 
subject,” I said. “I will settle the whole matter, and 
nobody need be frightened or disturbed. The Chel¬ 
tenham Hotel is only a few miles farther on, and I 
shall have to walk there anyway. I will start imme¬ 
diately and take the bear with me. I am sure that he 
will allow me to lead him wherever I please. I have 
tried him, and I find that he is a great deal gentler 
than most children.” 

She exclaimed, in horror: “You must not think 
of it! He might spring upon you and tear you to 
pieces! ” 

“Oh, he will not do that,” I answered. “He is not 
that sort of a bear—and, besides, he is securely muz¬ 
zled. I muzzled him myself, and he did not mind it 
in the least. Oh, you need not be afraid of the bear; 
he has had his breakfast and he is in perfect good 
humor with the world. It will not take me long to 
reach the hotel, and I shall enjoy the walk, and when 
I get there I will be sure to find some shed or out¬ 
house where the beast can be shut up until it can be 
decided what to do with him. I can leave him there 
81 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


and have him legally advertised, and then—if nothing 
else can be done—he can be shot. I shall be very 
glad to have his skin ; it will be worth enough to cover 
his bill here, and the damages to my bicycle. I shall 
send for that as soon as I reach the hotel. I can go to 
Waterton by train and take it with me. I can have 
it made all right in Waterton. So now, you see, I 
have settled everything satisfactorily.” 

She looked at me earnestly, and, although there 
was a certain solicitude in her gaze, I could also see 
there signs of great relief. “But isn’t there some 
other way of getting that bear to the hotel! ” she 
said. “It will be dreadful for you to have to walk 
there and lead him.” 

“It’s the only way to do it,” I answered. “You 
could not hitch a bear behind a wagon—the horse 
would run away and jerk his head off. The only way 
to take a bear about the country is to lead him, and 
I do not mind it in the least. As I have got to go 
without my bicycle, I would like to have some sort of 
company. Anyway, the bear must go, and as I am 
on the road to the Cheltenham, I shall be very glad 
to take him along with me.” 

“I think you are wonderfully brave,” she said, 
“and very good. If I can persuade myself it will be 
perfectly safe for you, it will certainly be a great 
relief to me.” 

I was now engaged in a piece of self-sacrifice, and 
I felt that I must do it thoroughly and promptly. “I 
will go and get my valise,” I said, “for I ought to 
start immediately.” 

“Oh, I will send that! ” she exclaimed. 

“No,” I answered ; “it does not weigh anything, and 
82 


ORSO 


I can sling it over my shoulder. By the way/’ I said, 
turning as I was about to leave the room, “I have 
forgotten something.” I put my hand into my 
pocket; it would not do to forget that I was, after 
all, only a departing guest. 

“No, no,” she replied, quickly. “I am your debtor. 
When you find out how much damage you have suf¬ 
fered, and what is to be done with the bear, all that 
can be settled. You can write to me, but I will have 
nothing to do with it now.” 

With my valise over my shoulder I returned to the 
hall to take leave of my hostess. Now she seemed 
somewhat contrite. Fate and she had conquered, I 
was going away, and she was sorry for me. 

“I think it is wonderfully good of you to do all 
this,” she said. “I wish I could do something for 
you.” 

I would have been glad to suggest that she might 
ask me to come again, and it would also have pleased 
me to say that I did not believe that her husband, if 
he could express his opinion, would commend her ap¬ 
parent inhospitality to his successor. But I made no 
such remarks, and offered my hand, which she cor¬ 
dially clasped as if I were an old friend and were 
going away to settle in the Himalayas. 

I went into the yard to get Orso. He was lying 
down when I approached him, but I think he knew 
from my general appearance that I was prepared to 
take the road, and he rose to his feet as much as to 
say, “I am ready.” I unfastened the chain from the 
post, and, with the best of wishes for good luck from 
John, who now seemed to be very well satisfied with 
me, I walked around the side of the house, the bear 
83 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


following as submissively as if be had been used to 
my leadership all his life. 

I did not see the boy nor the lemon-faced woman, 
and I was glad of it. I believe they would have cast 
evil eyes upon me, and there is no knowing what that 
bear might have done in consequence. 

Mrs. Chester was standing in the door as I reached 
the road. “Good-by ! ” she cried, “and good fortune 
go with you! ” I raised my hat, and gave Orso a 
little jerk with the chain. 


84 


CHAPTER IX 


A RUNAWAY 

He was a very slow walker, that bear. If I had 
been alone I would have been out of sight of the inn 
in less than five minutes. As it was, I looked back 
after a considerable time to see if I really were out of 
sight of the house, and I found I was not. She was 
still standing in the doorway, and when I turned she 
waved her handkerchief. How that I had truly left 
and was gone, she seemed to be willing to let me 
know better than before what a charming woman she 
was. I took off my hat again and pressed forward. 

For a couple of miles, perhaps, I walked thought¬ 
fully, and I do not believe I once thought of the bear 
shambling silently behind me. I had been dreaming 
a day-dream—not building a castle in the air, for I 
had seen before me a castle already built. I had sim¬ 
ply been dreaming myself into it, into its life, into 
its possessions, into the possession of everything which 
belonged to it. 

It had been a fascinating vision. It had suited my 
fancy better than any vision of the future which I had 
ever had. I was not ambitious,• I loved the loveli¬ 
ness of life. I was a student, and I had a dream of 
life which would not interfere with the society of my 
85 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


books. I loved all rural pleasures, and I had dreamed 
of a life where these were spread out ready for my en¬ 
joyment. I was a man formed to love, and there had 
come to me dreams of this sort of thing. 

My dreams had even taken practical shape. As I 
was dressing myself that morning I had puzzled my 
brain to find a pretext for taking the first step, which 
would be to remain a few days at the inn. 

The pretext for doing this had appeared to me. For 
a moment I had snatched at it and shown my joy, and 
then it had utterly disappeared—the vision, the fancy, 
the anticipations, the plans, the vine-covered home in 
the air, all were destroyed as completely as if it had 
been the tire of my bicycle scattered about in little 
bits upon the ground. 

“Come along, old Orso ! ” I exclaimed, endeavoring 
to mend my pace, and giving the bear a good pull 
upon his chain. But the ugly creature did not walk 
any faster; he simply looked at me with an air as if 
he would say that if I kept long upon the road I 
would learn to take it easy, and maintained the delib¬ 
erate slouch of his demeanor. 

Presently I stopped, and Orso was very willing to 
imitate me in that action. I found, to my surprise, 
that I was not walking upon a macadamized road: 
such was the highway which passed the inn and led, 
I had been told, to the Cheltenham. I was now upon 
a road of gravel and clay, smooth enough and wide 
enough, but of a different character from that on 
which I had started that morning. I looked about 
me. Across a field to my left I saw a line of trees 
which seemed to indicate a road. I had a dim recol¬ 
lection of having passed a road which seemed to turn 
86 


A RUNAWAY 


to the left, but I had been thinking very earnestly, 
and had paid little attention to it. Probably that road 
was the main road and this the one which turned off. 

I determined to investigate. It would not do to 
wander out of my way with my present encumbrance. 
It was now somewhat after noon; the country people 
were eating their dinners or engaged about their 
barns; there was nobody upon the road. At some 
distance ahead of me was a small house standing well 
back behind a little group of trees, and I decided to 
go there and make inquiries. And as it would not do 
at all to throw a rural establishment into a state of 
wild confusion by leading a bear up to its door, I con¬ 
ducted Orso to the side of the road and chained him 
to a fence-post. He was perfectly satisfied, and lay 
down, his nose upon his fore paws. 

I found three women in the little house. They were 
in a side kitchen eating their dinner, and I wondered 
what the bear would have done if he had smelled that 
dinner. They told me that I was not on the main 
road, and would have to go back more than half a 
mile in order to regain it. 

When I was out on the road again I said to myself 
that if I could possibly make Orso step along at a lit¬ 
tle more lively pace I might get to the hotel in time 
for a very late luncheon, and I was beginning to think 
that I had not been wise in declining portable refresh¬ 
ment, when I heard a noise ahead of me. At a con¬ 
siderable distance along the road, and not far from 
where I had left the bear, I saw a horse attached to a 
vehicle approaching me at a furious speed. He was 
running away ! The truth flashed upon me—he had 
been frightened by Orso ! 

87 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


I ran a few steps toward the approaching horse. 
His head was high in the air, and the vehicle swayed 
from side to side. It was a tall affair with two wheels, 
and on the high seat sat a lady vainly tugging at the 
reins. My heart sank. What dreadful thing had I 
done! 

I stood in the middle of the road. It seemed but a 
few seconds before the horse was upon me. He 
swerved to one side, but I was ready for that. I 
dashed at his bridle, but caught the end of his cum¬ 
brous bit in my right hand. I leaned forward with 
all the strength that dwelt in my muscles and nerves. 
The horse’s glaring eye was over my face, and I felt 
the round end of a shaft rise up under my arm. A 
pair of outstretched fore legs slid past me. I saw the 
end of a banged tail switching in the dust. The horse 
was on his haunches. He was stopped. 

Before I had time to recover an erect attitude and 
to let up the horse, the occupant of the vehicle was on 
the ground. She had skipped down with wonderful 
alacrity on the side opposite to me, and was coming 
round by the back of the cart. The horse was now 
standing on his four legs, trembling in every fibre, 
and with eyes that were still wild and staring. Hold¬ 
ing him firmly, I faced the lady as she stopped near 
me. She was a young woman in a jaunty summer 
costume and a round straw hat. She did not seem to 
be quite mistress of herself ; she was not pale, but per¬ 
haps that was because her face was somewhat browned 
by the sun, but her step was not steady, and she 
breathed hard. Under ordinary circumstances she 
would have been assisted to the side of the road, 
where she might sit down and recover herself, and 
88 


A RUNAWAY 


have water brought to her. But I could do nothing 
of that sort. I could not leave that shivering horse. 

“Are you hurt? 77 I asked. 

“Oh, no/ 7 she said, “but I am shaken up a bit. I 
cannot tell you how grateful I am ! I don 7 t believe 
I ever can tell you ! 77 

“Do not speak of that, 77 1 said quickly. “Perhaps 
you would feel better if you were to sit down some¬ 
where. 77 

“Oh, I don 7 t want to sit down, 77 said she. “I am so 
glad to have my feet on the solid earth again thatlhat 
is enough for me. It was a bear that frightened him 
—a bear lying down by the side of the road a little 
way back. He never ran away before, but when he 
saw that bear he gave a great shy and a bolt, and he 
was off. I just got a glimpse of the beast. 77 

I was very anxious to change the conversation, and 
suggested that I lead the horse into the shade, for the 
sun was blazing down upon us. The horse submitted 
to be led to the side of the road, but he was very 
nervous, and looked everywhere for the approach of 
shaggy bears. 

“It is perfectly dreadful, 77 she said, when she again 
approached me, “for people to leave bears about in 
that way. I suppose he was fastened, for it could not 
have been a wild beast; they do not lie down by the 
side of the road. I do not say that I was rattled, but 
I expected every second that there would be a smash, 
and there would have been if it had not been for— 77 

“It is a wonder you were not thrown out, 77 1 inter¬ 
rupted, “those carts are so tall. 77 

“Yes, 77 she answered, “and if I hadn 7 t slipped off the 
driving-cushion at the first shy I would have been 
89 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


out sure. I never had anything happen like this, but 
who could have expected a great bear by the side of 
the road? ” 

“Have you far to go?” I asked. 

“Hot very—about three miles. I made a call this 
morning on the other road, and was driving home. 
My name is Miss Larramie. My father’s place is on 
this road. He is Henry Esmond Larramie.” I had 
heard of the gentleman, but had never met him. 
“I am not afraid of horses,” she continued, “but I do 
not know about driving this one now. He looks as 
if he were all ready to bolt again.” 

“Oh, it would not do for you to drive him,” I said. 
“That would be extremely risky.” 

“I might walk home,” she said, “but I could not 
leave the horse.” 

“Let me think a minute,” said I. Then presently 
I asked, “Will this horse stand if he is hitched? ” 

“Oh, yes,” she answered; “I always hitch him when 
I make calls. There is a big strap under the seat 
which goes around his neck, and then through a ring 
in his bit. He has to stand—he can’t get away.” 

“Very well, then,” said I; “I will tell you what I 
will do. I will tie him to this tree. I think he is 
quieter, and if you will stand by him and talk to him 
—he knows you? ” 

“Oh, yes,” she answered, “and I can feed him with 
grass. But why do you want to tie him ? What are 
you going to do ? ” 

As she spoke she brought me the tie-strap, and I 
proceeded to fasten the horse to a tree. 

“How, then,” said I, “I must go and get the bear 
and take him away somewhere out of sight. It will 
90 


A RUNAWAY 


never do to leave him there. Some other horse 
might be coming along.” 

“You get the bear ! ” she said, surprised. 

“Yes,” I answered; “he is my bear, and—” 

She stepped back, her eyes expanded and her lower 
jaw dropped. “ Your bear ! ” she cried, and with that 
her glance seemed to run all over me as if she were 
trying to find some resemblance to a man who ex¬ 
hibited a bear. 

“Yes,” I replied 5 “I left him there while I went to 
ask my way. It was a dreadful thing to do, but I 
must leave him there no longer. I will tell you all 
about it when I come back.” 

I had decided upon a plan of action. I ran down the 
road to the bear, took down some bars of the fence, 
and then, untying him, I led him over a field to a 
patch of woodland. Orso shuffled along humbly as if 
it did not make any difference to him where he went, 
and when I reached the woods I entered it by an old 
cart-road, and soon struck off to one side among some 
heavy underbrush. Finding a spot where it would 
be impossible for the beast to be seen from the road, 
I fastened him securely to a tree. He looked after 
me regretfully, and I think I heard him whine, but I 
am not sure of that. I hurried back to the road, re¬ 
placed the bars, and very soon had joined the young 
lady. 

“Well,” said she, “never in this world would I have 
thought that was your bear ! But what is to be done 
now? This horse gave a jump as soon as he heard 
you running this way.” 

“How,” said I, “I will drive you to your house, 
or, if you are afraid, you can walk, and I will take 
91 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 

him home for you if you will give me the direc¬ 
tions.” 

“Oh, I am not a bit afraid,” she said. “I am sure 
you can manage him—you seem to be able to manage 
animals. But will not this be a great inconvenience 
to you? Are you going this way? And won’t you 
have to come back after your bear ? I can’t believe 
that you are really leading a bear about.” 

I laughed as I unfastened the horse. “It will not 
take me long to come back,” I said. “How, I will 
get in first, and, when I have him properly in hand, 
you can mount on the other side.” 

The young lady appeared to have entirely recov¬ 
ered from the effects of her fright, and was by my 
side in a moment. The horse danced a little as we 
started, and tried to look behind him, but he soon 
felt that he was under control, and trotted off finely. 

I now thought that I ought to tell her who I was, 
for I did not want to be taken for a travelling show¬ 
man, although I really did not suppose that she 
would make such a mistake. 

“So you are the schoolmaster at Walford ! ” said 
she. “I have heard about you. Little Billy Marshall 
is one of your scholars.” 

I admitted that he was, and that I was afraid he 
did not do me very much credit. 

“Perhaps not,” she said, “but he is a good boy. 
His mother sometimes works for us $ she does quite 
heavy jobs of sewing, and Billy brings them up by 
train. He was here a little more than a week ago, 
and I asked him how he was getting on at school, and 
if he had a good teacher, and he said the man was 
pretty good. But I want to know about the bear. 

92 


A RUNAWAY 

How in the world did yon happen to be leading a 
bear? ” 

I related the nrsine incident, which amused her 
very much, and, as she was a wheel woman herself, 
she commiserated with me sincerely on the damage 
to my machine. 

“So you stopped at the Holly Sprig?’ 7 she said. 
“And how did you like the mistress of that little 
inn? ”) 

I replied that I had found her very interesting. 

“Yes, she is an interesting woman,” said my com¬ 
panion, “and a very pretty one, too. Some people 
wonder why she continues to keep the inn, but per¬ 
haps she has to. You know, her husband was mur¬ 
dered.” 

“No, I did not! ” I exclaimed, in surprise. “I knew 
he was not living—but murdered ! That is dreadful! 
How did that happen ? ” 

“Nobody knows,” she answered. “They had not 
been married very long—I do not know how long— 
when he was killed. He went to New York on busi¬ 
ness by himself, and did not come back. They were 
searching for him days and days—ever so long, and 
they could find no clew. At last—it may have been 
a month afterwards—or perhaps it was more—it was 
found that he had been murdered. His body had 
been discovered, and was supposed to be that of some¬ 
body else, and had been buried iu whatever place the 
authorities buried people in such cases. Then it was 
too late to get it or to identify it, or to do anything. 
Wasn’t that perfectly awful? ” 

This story gave me a peculiar shock. I could not 
have imagined that that charming and apparently 
93 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


light-hearted young woman at the Holly Sprig had 
ever been crushed down by such a sorrow as this. 
But I did not ask any more questions. The young 
girl by my side probably knew no more than she had 
already told me. Besides, I did not want to hear any 
more. 

“ Boyal goes along just as if nothing had hap¬ 
pened/ 7 she said, admiringly regarding the horse. 
“Now I wonder if it will be safe for me to drive him 
again? 77 

“I should be very sorry, 77 I answered, “if my 
thoughtlessness had rendered him unsafe for you,* 
but if he could be led up and down past the place 
where he saw the bear until he becomes convinced that 
there is now nothing dreadful in that spot, he may 
soon be all right again. 77 

“Do you know, 77 she said, suddenly turning toward 
me, “what I would like better than anything else in 
this world? I would like to be able to stand in 
the middle of the road and stop a horse as you 
did! 77 

I laughed and assured her that I knew there were 
a great many things in the world which it would be 
much better for her to do than that. 

“Nothing would please me so much, 77 she said, de¬ 
cisively, “not one single, solitary thing ! There 7 s our 
gate. Turn in here, please. 77 

I drove up a winding road which led to a house 
standing among trees on a slight elevation. “Please 
let me out here, 77 she said, when I reached the end of 
the porch. “I will send a man to take the horse. 77 


94 


CHAPTER X 


THE LARRAMIE FAMILY 

I think I did not have to wait ten seconds after her 
departure, for a stable-man had seen us approach and 
immediately came forward. I jumped down from the 
cart and looked in the direction of the road. I thought 
if I were to make a cross-cut over the lawn and some 
adjacent fields I should get back to my bear much 
quicker than if I returned the way I had come. But 
this thought had scarcely shaped itself in my mind 
when I heard the approach of hurrying feet, and in 
the next moment a little army had thrown itself 
upon me. 

There was a tall, bright-faced man, with side whiskers 
and a flowing jacket, who came forward with long 
steps and outstretched hand; there was a lady behind 
him, with little curls on the side of her head; and 
there were some boys and girls and other people. 
And nearly in front of the whole of them was the 
young lady I had brought to the house. Each one of 
them seized me by the hand; each one of them told 
me what a great thing I had done; each of them 
thanked me from the bottom of his or her heart for 
saving the life of his or her daughter or sister; and not 
one of them gave me a chance to say that as I had 
95 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 

done all the mischief I could not be too thankful that 
I had been able to avert evil consequences. From the 
various references to the details of the incident I con¬ 
cluded that the young lady had dashed into the house 
and had given a full account of everything which had 
happened in less time than it would have taken me to 
arrange my ideas for such a recital. 

As soon as I could get a chance I thanked them all 
for their gracious words, and said that as I was in a 
hurry I must take my leave. Thereupon arose a hub¬ 
bub of voices. “Not at dinner-time ! ” exclaimed Mr. 
Larramie. “We would never listen to such a thing ! ” 
“And you need not trouble yourself about your 
bear,” cried my young lady, whose Christian name I 
soon discovered to be Edith. “He can live on barks 
and roots until we have time to attend to him. He is 
used to that in his native wilds.” 

* Now everybody wanted to know everything about 
the bear, and great was the hilarity which my account 
occasioned. 

“Come in ! Come in ! ” exclaimed Mr. Larramie. 
“The bear will be all right if you tied him well. You 
have just time to get ready for dinner.” And noticing 
a glance I had given to my garments, he continued: 
“You need not bother about your clothes. We are all 
in field costume. Oh, I did not see you had a valise. 
Now, hurry in, all of you ! ” 

That dinner was a most lively meal. Everybody 
seemed to be talking at once, yet they all found time 
to eat. The father talked so much that his daughter 
Edith took the carving-fork from him and served out 
the mutton-chops herself. The mother, from the other 
end of the table, with tears in her eyes, continually 
96 


THE LARRAMIE FAMILY 


asked me if I would not have something or other, and 
how I could ever screw up my courage to go about 
with an absolutely strange bear. 

There was a young man, apparently the oldest son, 
with a fine, frank manner and very broad shoulders. 
He was so wonderfully developed about the bust that 
he seemed almost deformed, his breast projecting so 
far that it gave him the appearance of being round- 
shouldered in front. This, my practised eye told me, 
was the result of undue exercise in the direction 
of chest-expansion. He was a good-natured fellow, 
and overlooked my not answering several of his 
questions, owing to the evident want of opportunity 
to do so. 

There was a yellow-haired girl with a long plait 
down her back $ there was a half-grown boy, wearing 
a blue calico shirt with a red cravat; there was a small 
girl who sat by her mother; and there was a young 
lady, very upright and slender, who did not seem to 
belong to the family, for she never used the words 
“father ” and “mother,” which were continually in the 
mouths of the others. This young lady talked inces¬ 
santly, and fired her words after the manner of a 
Gatling gun, without taking aim at anybody in par¬ 
ticular. Sometimes she may have been talking to me, 
but as she did not direct her gaze toward me on such 
occasions, I did not feel bound to consider any suppo¬ 
sitions in regard to the matter. 

I, of course, was the principal object of general 
attention. They wanted to know what I really thought 
of Billy Marshall as a scholar. They wanted to know 
if I would have some more. They wanted to know if 
I had had any previous experience with bears. The 
97 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


father asked which I thought it would be easier to 
manage, a boy or a bear. The boy Percy wanted to 
know how I placed my feet when I stood up in front 
of a runaway horse. Others asked if I intended to go 
back to my school at Walford, and how I liked the 
village, and if I were president of the literary society 
there, which Mrs. Larramie thought I ought to be, on 
account of my scholastic position. 

But before the meal was over the bear had come 
to be the absorbing subject of conversation. I was 
asked my plans about him, and they were all dis¬ 
approved. 

“It would be of no use to take him to the Chelten¬ 
ham,” said Walter, the oldest son. “They couldn’t 
keep him there. They have too many horses—a 
livery-stable. They wouldn’t let you come on the 
place with him.” 

“Of course not,” said Mr. Larramie. “And, be¬ 
sides, why should you take him there ? It would be 
a poor place anyway. They wouldn’t keep him until 
his owner turned up. They wouldn’t have any¬ 
thing to do with him. What you want to do is to 
bring your bear here. We have a hay-barn out in 
the fields. He could sleep in the hay, and we could 
give him a long chain so that he could have a nice 
range.” 

The younger members of the family were delighted 
with this suggestion. Nothing would please them 
better than to have a bear on the place. Each one 
of them was ready to take entire charge of it, and 
Percy declared that he would go into the woods and 
hunt for wild-bee honey with which to feed it. Even 
Mrs. Larramie assured me that if a bear were well 
98 


THE LARRAMIE FAMILY 


chained, at a suitable distance, she would have no 
fears whatever of it. 

I accepted the proposition, for I was glad to get 
rid of the animal in a way which would please so 
many people, and after dinner was over, and I had 
smoked a cigar with my host and his son Walter, I 
said that it was time for me to go and get the bear. 

“But you won’t go by the main road,” said Mr. 
Larramie. “That makes a great curve below here to 
avoid a hill. If I understood you properly, you left 
the bear not far from a small house inhabited by 
three women % ” 

“They’re the McKenna sisters,” added Walter. 

“Yes,” said the father, “and their house is not 
more than two miles from here by a field road. I 
will go with you.” 

I exclaimed that I would not put him to so much 
trouble, but my words were useless. The Walter son 
declared that he would go also, that he would like 
the walk ; the Percy son declared he was going if 
anybody went; and Genevieve, the girl with the yel¬ 
low plait, said that she wished she were a boy so that 
she could go too, and she wished she could go any¬ 
way, boy or no boy, and as her father said that there 
was no earthly reason why she should not go, she ran 
for her hat. 

Miss Edith looked as if she would like to go, but 
she did not say so ; and, as for me, I agreed to every 
proposition. It would certainly be great fun to do 
things with this lively household. 

We started off without the boy, but it was not long 
before he came running after us, and to my horror I 
perceived that he carried a rifle. 

99 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“What are yon going to do with that, Percy !” ex¬ 
claimed his father. 

“I don’t expect to do anything with it/’ the boy 
replied, “but I thought it would be a good thing to 
bring it along—especially as Genevieve is with us. 
Nobody knows what might happen.” 

“That’s true,” exclaimed Walter, “and the fact 
that Genevieve is along is the best reason in the 
world for your not bringing a gun. You better go 
take it back.” 

To this Percy strongly objected. He was going 
out on a sort of a bear-hunt, and to him half the 
pleasure would be lost if he did not carry a gun. I 
am not a coward, but a boy with a gun is a terror to 
me. My expression may have intimated my state of 
mind, for Mr. Larramie said to me that we had now 
gone so far that it would be a pity to send Percy 
back, and that he did not think there would be any 
danger, for his boy had been taught how to carry a 
gun properly. 

“We are all out-of-door people and sportsmen,” he 
said, “and we begin early. But I suppose what you 
are thinking about is the danger of some of us ending 
soon. But we need not be afraid of that. Walk in 
front, Percy, and keep the barrel pointed downward.” 

When we came in sight of the house of the three 
McKennas, Walter proposed that we make a detour 
toward the woods. “For,” said he, “if those good 
women see a party like this with a gun among them, 
they will be sure to think it is a case of escaped 
criminal, or something of that kind, and be frightened 
out of their wits.” 

We skirted the edge of the trees until we came to 
100 


THE LARRAMIE FAMILY 


the opening of the wood road, which I recognized 
immediately, and, asking Percy and the others to 
keep back, I went on by myself. 

“I don’t think people would frighten that sort of a 
bear,” I heard Genevieve say. “He must be used to 
crowds around him when he’s dancing.” 

I presently reached the place where I had turned 
from the road. It was a natural break in the woods. 
There was the tree to which I had tied the bear, but 
there was no bear. 

I stood aghast, and in a moment the rest of the 
party were clustered around me. “Is this where you 
left him?” they cried. “And is he gone? Are you 
sure this is the place?” 

Yes, I was sure of it. I have an excellent eye for 
locality, and I knew that I had chained the bear to 
the small oak in front of me. At that moment there 
was a scream from Genevieve. “Look ! Look ! ” she 
cried. “There he is, just ready to spring ! ” 

We all looked up, and, sure enough, on the lower 
branch of the oak, half enveloped in foliage, we saw 
the bear extended at full length and blinking down 
at us. I gave a shout of delight. 

“How, keep back, all of you! ” I cried. “Bears 
don’t spring from trees, but it will be better for you 
to be out of the way while I try to get him down.” 

I walked up to the oak-tree, and then I found that 
the bear was still firmly attached to it. His chain 
had been fastened loosely around the trunk; he had 
climbed up to the branch and pulled the chain with 
him. 

I now called upon Orso to come down, but appar¬ 
ently he did not understand English, and lay quietly 
101 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


upon the branch, his head toward the trunk of the 
tree. I extended my hand up toward the chain, and 
found that I could nearly reach it. “ Shall I give 
you a lift?” cried Walter, and I accepted the offer. 
It was a hard piece of work for him, but he was a 
professed athlete, and he would have lifted me if it 
had cracked his spine. I reached up and unhooked 
the chain. It was then long enough for me to stand 
on the ground and hold the end of it. 

Now I began to pull. “Come down!” I said. 
“Come down, Orso ! ” But Orso did not move. 

“Bears don’t come down head-foremost,” cried 
Percy; “they turn around and come down back¬ 
wards. You ought to have a chain to his tail if you 
want to pull him down.” 

“He hasn’t got any tail! ” exclaimed Genevieve. 

I was in a quandary. I might as well try to break 
the branch as to pull the bear down. “If we had 
only thought of bringing a bucket of meat! ” cried 
Percy. 

“Would you mind holding the chain,” I said to 
Walter, “while I try to drive him down?” Of 
course the developed young man was not afraid to 
do anything I was not afraid to do, and he took the 
chain. There was a pine-tree growing near the oak, 
and, mounting into this, I found that with a long 
stick which Mr. Larramie handed me I could just 
reach the bear. “Go down ! ” I said, tapping him on 
the haunches, but he did not move. 

“Can’t you speak to him in Italian?” said Gene¬ 
vieve. “Tame bears know Italian. Doesn’t anybody 
know the Italian for ‘ Come down out of a tree ’ ? ” 
But such knowledge was absent from the party. 

102 


THE LARRAMIE FAMILY 


“Try him in Latin,” cried Percy. “That must be 
a good deal like Italian, anyway.” 

To this suggestion Mr. Larramie made no answer; 
he had left college before any of the party present 
had been born. Mr. Walter looked a little confused$ 
he had graduated several years before, and his classics 
were rusty. I felt that my pedagogical position 
made it incumbent upon me to take immediate 
action, but for the life of me I could not think of an 
appropriate phrase. 

“Give him high English!” cried Mr. Larramie. 
“That’s often classic enough ! Tell him to descend ! ” 

“Orso, descend! ” I cried, giving a little foreign 
twang to the words. Immediately the bear began to 
twist like a caterpillar upon the limb; he extended 
his hind legs toward the trunk ; he seized it with his 
fore paws. He began slowly to move downward. 

“Hurrah!” cried Percy. “That hit him like a 
rifle-ball! Hurrah for high English! That’s good 
enough for me ! ” 

“Look at his hind hands!” cried Genevieve. He 
has worn all the hair off his palms ! ” 

I hurried from the tree and reached the ground 
before the bear. Then taking the end of the chain, I 
advised the others to move out of the woods while I 
followed with the bear. They all obeyed except 
Genevieve, who wanted very much to linger behind 
and help me lead him. But this I would not permit. 

The bear followed me with his usual docility until 
we had emerged from the woods. Then he gave a 
little start, and fixed his eyes upon Percy, who stood 
at a short distance, his rifle in his hand. I had not 
supposed that this bear was afraid of anything, but 
103 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


now I had reason to believe that he was afraid of 
guns, for the instant he saw the armed boy he made 
the little start I have mentioned, and followed it up 
by a great bolt which jerked the chain from my 
hand, and the next instant Orso was bounding away 
in great lopes, his chain rattling behind him. 

Promptly Percy brought his rifle to his shoulder. 
“Don’t you fire ! ” I shouted. “Put down your gun 
and leave it here. It frightens him.” And with 
that we were all off in hot pursuit. 

“Cut him off from the woods ! ” shouted Mr. Wal¬ 
ter, who was in advance. “If he gets in the woods 
we’ll lose him sure ! ” 

We followed this good advice, and at the top of our 
speed we endeavored to get between the beast and 
the trees. To a certain extent we succeeded in our 
object, for some of us were fast runners, and Orso, 
perceiving that he might be cut off from a woody re¬ 
treat, turned almost at right angles and made directly 
for the house. 

“He’s after the three McKennas ! ” screamed Gene¬ 
vieve, as she turned to follow the bear, and from being 
somewhat in the rear she was now in advance of us, and 
dashed across the field at a most wonderful rate for a girl. 

The rest of us soon passed her, but before we reached 
the house the bear disappeared behind some out¬ 
buildings. Then we saw him again. He dashed 
through the gate of a back yard. He seemed to throw 
himself against the house. He disappeared through 
a doorway. There was a great crash as of crockery 
and tin. There were screams. There was rattling 
and banging, and then all was still. When we reached 
the house we heard no sound. 


104 


CHAPTER XI 

THE THREE MCKENNAS 

I was in advance, and as I entered the doorway 
through which the bear had disappeared, I found my¬ 
self in the kitchen where I had seen the three women 
at their dinner. Wild confusion had been brought 
about in a second. A table had been overturned, 
broken dishes and tin things were scattered on the 
floor, a wooden chair lay upon its back, and the room 
seemed deserted. The rest of the party quickly rushed 
in behind me, and great were their exclamations at 
the scene of havoc. 

“I hope nothing has happened to the McKenna sis¬ 
ters, 77 cried Mr. Larramie. “They must have been in 
here! 77 

I did not suppose that anything serious had oc¬ 
curred, for the bear 7 s jaws were securely strapped, but 
with anxious haste I went into the other part of the 
house. Across a hallway I saw an open door, and 
from the room within came groans, or perhaps I 
should call them long-drawn wails of woe. 

I was in the room in a moment, and the others 
crowded through the doorway behind me. It was a 
good-sized bedroom, probably the “spare room 77 of the 
first floor. In one corner was a tall and wide high- 
105 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


posted bedstead, and in the very middle of it sat an 
elderly woman drawn up into the smallest compass 
into which she could possibly compress herself. Her 
eyes were closed, her jaws were dropped, her spectacles 
hung in front of her mouth, her gray hair straggled 
over her eyes, and her skin was of a soapy white¬ 
ness. 

She paid no attention to the crowd of people in the 
room. Evidently she was frightened out of her 
senses. Every moment she emitted a doleful wail. 
As we stood gazing at her, and before we had time 
to speak to her, she seemed to be seized by an upheav¬ 
ing spasm, the influence of which was so great that 
she actually rose in the air, and as she did so her wail 
intensified itself into a shriek, and as she came down 
again with a sudden thump all the breath in her 
body seemed to be bounced out in a gasp of woe. 

“It’s Susan McKenna ! ” exclaimed Walter. “What 
in the world is the matter with her? Miss Susan, are 
you hurt ? ” 

She made no answer, but again she rose, again she 
gave vent to a wild wail, and again she came down 
with a thump. 

Percy was now on his knees near the bed. “It’s 
the bear!” he cried. “He’s under there, and he’s 
humping himself! ” 

“Sacking bottom ! ” cried the practical Genevieve. 
“There isn’t room enough for him !” 

Stooping down, I saw the bear under the bed, now 
crowding himself back as far as possible into a corner. 
Ko part of his chain was exposed to view, and for a 
moment I did not see how I was going to get him out. 
But the first thing was to get rid of the woman. 

106 


THE THREE McKENNAS 


“Come, Miss Susan/ 7 said Mr. Larramie, “let me 
help you off the bed, and you can go into another 
room, and then we will attend to this animal. You 
need not be afraid to get down. He won’t hurt you. 77 

But the McKenna sister paid no attention to these 
remarks. She kept her eyes closed; she moaned and 
wailed. So long as that horrible demon was under 
the bed she would not have put as much as one of her 
toes over the edge for all the money in the world ! 

In every way I tried to induce the bear to come 
out, but he paid no attention to me. He had been 
frightened, and he was now in darkness and security. 
Suddenly a happy thought struck me. I glanced 
around the room, and then I rushed into the hall. 
Genevieve followed me. “What do you want? 77 she 
said. 

“I am looking for some overshoes ! 77 I cried. “In¬ 
dia-rubber ones! 77 

Instantly Genevieve began to dash around. In a 
few moments she had opened a little closet which I 
had not noticed. “Here is one ! 77 she cried, “but it 7 s 
torn—the heel is nearly off! Perhaps the other 
one— 77 

“Give me that! 77 I exclaimed. “It doesn’t matter 
about its being torn ! 77 With the old overshoe in my 
hand I ran back into the room, where Mr. Larramie 
was still imploring the McKenna sister to get down 
from the bed. I stooped and thrust the shoe under 
as far as I could reach. Almost immediately I saw a 
movement in the shaggy mass in the corner. I wrig¬ 
gled the shoe, and a paw was slightly extended. Then 
I drew it away slowly from under the bed. 

How Miss Susan McKenna rose in the air higher 
107 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


than she had yet gone. A maddening wail went up, 
and for a moment she tottered on the apex of an ele¬ 
vation like a wooden idol npheaved by an earthquake. 
Before she had time to tumble over she sank again 
with a thump. The great hairy bear, looking twice 
as large in that room as he appeared in the open air, 
came out from under the foot of the bed, and as I 
dangled the old rubber shoe in front of his nose he 
would have seized upon it if his jaws had not been 
strapped together. I got hold of the chain and con¬ 
ducted him quietly outside, amid the cheers and hand¬ 
clapping of Percy and Genevieve. 

I chained Orso to a post of the fence, and, removing 
his muzzle, I gave him the old rubber shoe. 

“Shall I bring him some more?” cried Genevieve, 
full of zeal in good works. But I assured her that 
one would do for the present. 

I now hurried into the house to find out what had 
happened to the persons and property of the Mc¬ 
Kenna sisters. 

“Where are the other two?” cried Genevieve, who 
was darting from one room to another 5 “the bear 
can’t have swallowed them.” 

It was not long before Percy discovered the two 
missing sisters in the cellar. They were seated on the 
ground with their aprons over their heads. 

It was some time before quiet was restored in that 
household. To the paralyzing terror occasioned by 
the sudden advent of the bear succeeded wild lamen¬ 
tations over the loss of property. I assured them 
that I was perfectly willing to make good the loss, but 
Mr. Larramie would not allow me to say anything on 
the subject. 


108 


THE THREE McKENNAS 


“It is not your affair,” said he. “The bear would 
have done no damage whatever had it not been for 
the folly of Percy in bringing his gun—I suppose the 
animal has been shot at some time or other—and my 
weakness in allowing him to keep it. I will attend 
to these damages. The amount is very little, I imag¬ 
ine, principally cheap crockery, and the best thing 
you can do is to start off slowly with your bear. The 
women will not be able to talk reasonably until it is 
off the premises. I will catch up with you pres¬ 
ently.” 

When the bear and I, with the rest of the party, 
were fairly out of sight of the house, we stopped and 
waited for Mr. Larramie, and it was not long before 
he joined us. 

When we reached the hay-barn we were met by the 
rest of the Larramie family, all anxious to see the bear. 
Even Miss Edith, who had had one glimpse of the 
beast, was very glad indeed to assure me that she did 
not wonder in the least that I had supposed there 
would be no harm in leaving such a mild creature for 
a little while by the side of the road, and I was sure 
from the exclamations of the rest of the family that 
Orso would not suffer for want of care and attention 
during his stay in the hay-barn. 

I was immensely relieved to get rid of the bear and 
to leave him in such good quarters, for it now ap¬ 
peared to me quite reasonable that I might have had 
difficulty in lodging him anywhere on the premises of 
the Cheltenham, and under any circumstances I very 
much preferred appearing at that hotel without an 
ursine companion. As soon as we reached the house 
I told Mr. Larramie that it was now necessary for me 
109 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


to hurry on, and asked if there were not some way to 
the hotel which would not make it necessary for me 
to go back to the main road. 

The good gentleman fairly shouted at me. “You 
aren’t going to any hotel! ” he declared. “ Do you 
suppose we are heathens, to let you start off at this 
late hour in the afternoon for a hotel? You have 
nothing to do with hotels—you spend the night with 
us, sir ! If you are thinking about your clothes, pray 
dismiss the subject from your mind. If it will make 
you feel better satisfied, we will all put on golf suits. 
In the morning we will get your machine from' the 
Holly Sprig, and when you want to go on we will send 
you and it to Waterton in a wagon. It is not a long 
drive, and it is much the pleasanter way to manage 
your business.” 

The family showed themselves delighted when they 
heard that I was to spend the night with them, and I 
did not object to the plan, for I had not the slightest 
desire to go to a summer hotel. Just before I went 
up to my room to get ready for supper, the young 
Genevieve came to me upon the porch. 

“Would you mind,” she said, “letting me feel your 
muscle ? ” 

Very much surprised, I reached out my arm for 
her inspection, and she clasped her long thin fingers 
around my biceps flexor cubiti. Apparently, the in¬ 
spection was very satisfactory to her. 

“I would give anything,” she said, “if I had muscle 
like that! ” 

I laughed heartily. “My dear little girl,” said I, 
“you would be sorry indeed if you had anything of 
the sort. When you grow up and go to parties, how 
110 


THE THREE McKENNAS 


would you like to show bare arms shaped like mine ? 
You would be a spectacle indeed.” 

“Well,” said she, “perhaps you are right. I might 
not care to have them bulge, but I would like to have 
them hard.” 

It was a lively supper and an interesting evening. 
Miss Edith sat opposite to me at table—I gave her this 
title because I was informed that there was an elder 
sister who was away on a visit. I could see that she 
regarded me as her especial charge. She did not ask 
me what I would have, but she saw that every possi¬ 
ble want was attended to. As the table was lighted 
by a large hanging-lamp, I had a better view of her 
features than I had yet obtained. She was not hand¬ 
some. Her eyes were too wide apart, her nose needed 
perhaps an eighth of an inch in length, and her well¬ 
shaped mouth would not have suffered by a slight 
reduction. But there was a cheerful honesty in her 
expression and in her words which gave me the idea 
that she was a girl to believe in. 

After supper we played round games, and the 
nervous young lady talked. She could not keep her 
mind on cards, and therefore'played no game. In the 
course of the evening Mrs. Larramie took occasion to 
say to me, and her eyes were very full as she spoke, 
that she did not want me to think she had forgotten 
that that day I had given her her daughter, and 
although the others—greatly to my satisfaction—did 
not indulge in any such embarrassing expressions of 
gratitude, they did not fail to let me know the high 
estimation in which they held me. The little girl, 
Clara, sat close to me while I was playing, every now 
and then gently stroking my arm, and when she was 
111 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


taken off to bed she ran back to say to me that the 
next time I brought a bear to their house she hoped 
I would also bring some little ones. Even Percy took 
occasion to let me know that, under the circumstances, 
he was willing to overlook entirely the fact of my 
being a schoolmaster. 

After the games, when the family was scattering,— 
not to their several bed-chambers, but apparently to 
various forms of recreation or study which seemed to 
demand their attention,—Miss Edith asked me if I 
would not like to take a walk and look at the stars. 
As this suggestion was made in the presence of her 
parents, I hesitated a moment, expecting some discreet 
objection. But none came, and I assented most will¬ 
ingly to a sub-astral promenade. 

There was a long flagged walk which led to the 
road, and backward and forward upon this path we 
walked many, many times. 

“I like starlight better than moonlight / 7 said Miss 
Edith, “for it doesn’t pretend to be anything more 
than it is. You cannot do anything by starlight 
except simply walk about, and if there are any 
trees, that isn’t easy. You know this, you don’t ex¬ 
pect anything more, and you’re satisfied. But moon¬ 
light is different. Sometimes it is so bright out of 
doors when the moon is full that you are apt to think 
you could play golf or croquet, or even sit on a bench 
and read. But it isn’t so. You can’t do any of these 
things—at least, you can’t do them with any satisfac¬ 
tion. And yet, month after month, if you live in the 
country, the moon deceives you into thinking that 
for a great many things she is nearly as good as the 
sun. But all she does is to make the world beautiful, 
112 


THE THREE McKENNAS 


and she doesn’t do that as well as the snn does it. 
The stars make no pretences, and that is the reason I 
like them better. 

“But I did not bring you out here to tell you all 
this/’ she continued, offering me no opportunity of 
giving my opinions on the stars and moon. “I sim¬ 
ply wanted to say that I am so glad and thankful to 
be walking about on the surface of the earth with 
whole bones and not a scratch from head to foot”— 
at this point my heart began to sink; I never do 
know what to say when people are grateful to me— 
“that I am going to show you my gratitude by treat¬ 
ing you as I know you would like to be treated. I 
shall not pour out my gratitude before you and make 
you say things which are incorrect, for you are bound 
to do that if you say anything—” 

“I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” I 
said ; “but now let us talk some more about the stars.” 

“Oh, bother the stars!” said she. “But I will 
drop the subject of gratitude as soon as I have said 
that if you ever come to know me better than you do 
now, you will know that in regard to such things I 
am the right kind of a girl.” 

I had not the slightest doubt that she was entirely 
correct. And then she began to talk about golf, and 
after that of croquet. 

“I consider that the finest outdoor game we have,” 
she said, “because there is more science in it than 
you find in any of the others. Your brains must 
work when you play croquet with intelligent oppo¬ 
nents.” 

“The great trouble about it is,” I said, “that it is 
often so easy.” 


113 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“But you can get rid of that objection,” she replied, 
“if you have a bad ground. Croquet needs hazards 
just as much as golf does. The finest games I have 
ever seen were played on a bad ground.” 

So we talked and walked until some of the lights in 
the upper windows of the house had gone out. We 
ascended to the porch, and just before entering the 
front door she turned to me. 

“I wish I could go to sleep to-night with the same 
right to feel proud, self-confident, superior, that you 
have. Good night.” And she held out her hand and 
gave mine a strong, hearty shake. 

I smiled as she left me standing on the porch. 
This was the same spot on which her sister Genevieve 
had felt my muscle. “This is an appreciative family,” 
I said, and, guided by the sound of voices, I found 
Mr. Larramie and his son Walter in the billiard- 
room. 


114 


CHAPTER XII 


BACK TO THE HOLLY SPRIG 

Before going to bed that night I did not throw my¬ 
self into an easy-chair and gaze musingly out into the 
night. On the contrary, I stood up sturdily with my 
back to the mantel-piece, and with the forefinger of 
my right hand I tapped my left palm. 

“Now, then / 7 said I to myself, “as soon as my bi¬ 
cycle is put into working order I shall imitate travel¬ 
lers in hot countries—I shall ride all night, and I shall 
rest all day. There are too many young women in 
Cathay. They turn up one after another with the 
regularity of a continuous performance. No sooner is 
the curtain rung down on one act than it is rung up 
on another. Perhaps after a while I may get out of 
Cathay, and then again I may ride by day . 77 

In taking my things from my valise, I pulled out 
the little box which the doctors daughter had given 
me, but I did not open it. “No , 77 said I, “there is no 
need whatever that I should take a capsule to-night . 77 

After breakfast the next day Mr. Larramie came 
to me. “Do you know , 77 said he, “I feel ashamed on 
account of the plans I made for you . 77 

I did not know, for I could see no earthly reason 
for such feeling. 


115 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“I arranged/’ said he, “to send to the Holly Sprig 
for your machine, and then to have yon and it driven 
over to Waterton. How this I consider brutish. My 
wife told me that it was, and I agree with her per¬ 
fectly. It will take several days to repair that in¬ 
jured wheel,—Walter tells me you cannot expect it in 
less than three days,—and what will you do in Water- 
ton all that time? It isn’t a pretty country, the 
hotels are barely good enough for a night’s stop, and 
there isn’t anything for you to do. Even if you hired 
a wheel you would find it stupid exploring that coun¬ 
try. How, sir, that plan is brushed entirely out of 
sight. Your bicycle shall be sent on, and when you 
hear that it is repaired and ready for use, you can go 
on yourself if you wish to.” 

“My dear sir,” I exclaimed, “this is entirely too 
much! ” 

He put his hands upon my shoulders and looked 
me squarely in the face. “Too much ! ” said he, “too 
much! That may be your opinion, but I can tell 
you you have the whole of the rest of the world 
against you. That is, you would have if they all 
knew the circumstances. How you are only one, and 
if you want to know how many people are opposed 
to you, I have no doubt Percy can tell you, but I am 
not very well posted in regard to the present popu¬ 
lation of the world.” 

There was no good reason that I could offer why I 
should go and sit solitary in Waterton for three days, 
and if I had had any such reason I know it would 
have been treated with contempt. So I submitted— 
not altogether with an easy mind, and yet seeing 
cause for nothing but satisfaction and content. 

116 


BACK TO THE HOLLY SPRIG 


“ Another thing,” said Mr. Larramie$ “I have 
thought that you would like to attend to your bicycle 
yourself. Perhaps you will want to take it apart 
before you send it away. Percy will be glad to drive 
to the Holly Sprig, and you can go with him. Then, 
when you come back, I will have my man take your 
machine to Waterton. I have a young horse very 
much in need of work, and I shall be glad to have an 
excuse for giving him some travelling to do.” 

I stood astounded. Go back to the Holly Sprig! 
This arrangement had been made without reference 
to me. It had been supposed, of course, that I would 
be glad to go and attend to the proper packing of 
my bicycle. Even now, Percy, running across the 
yard, called to me that he would be ready to start in 
two minutes. 

When I took my seat in the wagon, Mr. Larramie 
was telling me that he would like me to inform Mrs. 
Chester that he would keep the bear until it was rea¬ 
sonable to suppose that the owner would not come 
for it, and that then he would either sell it or buy it 
himself, and make satisfactory settlement with her. 

I know I did not hear all that he said, for my 
mind was wildly busy trying to decide what I ought 
to do. Should I jump down even now and decline to 
go to the Holly Sprig, or should I go on and attend 
to my business like a sensible man ? There was cer¬ 
tainly no reason why I should do anything else, but 
when the impatient Percy started, my mind was not 
in the least made up; I remained on the seat beside 
him simply because I was there. 

Percy was a good driver, and glad to exhibit his 
skill. He was also in a lively mood, and talked with 
117 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


great freedom. “Do you know/ 7 said he, “that Edith 
wanted to drive you over to the inn I Think of that! 
But it had all been cut and dried that I should go, 
and I was not going to listen to any such nonsense. 
Besides, you might want somebody to help you take 
your machine apart and pack it up. 77 

I was well satisfied to be accompanied by the boy 
and not by his sister, and with the wheels and his 
tongue rattling along together, we soon reached the 
inn. 

Percy drove past it and was about to turn into the 
entrance of the yard, but I stopped him. “I suppose 
your wheel is back there, 77 he said. 

“Yes, 77 said I, “but I will get out here. 77 

“All right/ 7 he replied; “I 7 11 drive around to the 
sheds.” 

At the open door of the large room I met Mrs. 
Chester, evidently on her way out of doors. She 
wore a wide straw hat, her hands were gloved, and 
she carried a basket and a pair of large shears. 
When she saw me there was a sudden flush upon her 
face, but it disappeared quickly. Whether this 
meant that she was agreeably surprised to see me 
again, or whether it showed that she resented my 
turning up again so soon after she thought she was 
finally rid of me, I did not know. It does not do to 
predicate too much upon the flushes of women. 

I hastened to inform her why I had come, and now, 
having recovered from her momentary surprise, she 
asked me to walk in and sit down, an invitation which 
I willingly accepted, for I did not in the least object 
to detaining her from her garden. 

Now she wanted to know howl had managed to get on 
118 


BACK TO THE HOLLY SPRIG 


with, the bear, and what the people at the Cheltenham 
said about it, and when I went on to tell her the whole 
story, which I did at considerable length, she was 
intensely interested. She shuddered at the runaway, 
she laughed heartily at the uprising of the McKenna 
sister, and she listened earnestly to everything I had 
to say about the Larramies. 

“You seem to have a wonderful way,” she exclaimed, 
“of falling in with—” I think she was going to say 
“girls,” but she changed it to “people.” 

“Yes,” said I. “I should not have imagined that I 
could make so many good friends in such a short 
time.” 

Then I went on to give her Mr. Larramie’s message, 
and to say more things about the bear. I was glad to 
think of any subject which might prolong the conver¬ 
sation. Bo far she was interested, and all that we said 
seemed perfectly natural to the occasion, but this could 
not last, and I felt within me a strong desire to make 
some better use of this interview. 

I had not expected to see her again, certainly not 
so soon, and here I was alone with her, free to say 
what I chose ; but what should I say S I had not pre¬ 
meditated anything serious. In fact, I was not sure 
that I wished to say anything which should be consid¬ 
ered absolutely serious and definite, but if I were ever to 
do anything definite—and the more I talked with this 
bright-eyed and merry-hearted young lady the stronger 
became the longing to say something definite—now 
was the time to prepare the way for what I might do 
or say hereafter. 

I was beginning to grow nervous, for the right thing 
to say would not present itself, when Percy strode into 
119 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


the room. “Good morning, Mrs. Chester,” said he, 
and then, turning to me, he declared that he had been 
waiting in the yard, and began to think I might have 
forgotten I had come for my wheel. 

Of course I rose and she rose, and we followed Percy 
to the back door of the house. Outside I saw that 
the boy of the inn was holding the horse, and that the 
wheel was already placed in the back part of the 
wagon. 

“I’ve got everything all right, I think,” said Percy. 
“I didn’t suppose it was necessary to wait for you, 
but you’d better take a look at it to see if you think 
it will travel without rubbing or damaging itself.” 

I stepped to the wagon and found that the bicycle 
was very well placed. “Now, then,” said Percy, taking 
the reins and mounting to his seat, “all you’ve got to 
do is to get up, and we’ll be off.” 

I turned to the back door, but she was not there. 
“Wait a minute,” said I, and I hurried into the house. 
She was not in the hall. I looked into the large room. 
She was not there. I went into the parlor, and out 
upon the front porch. Then I went back into the 
house to seek some one who might call her. I was 
even willing to avail myself of the services of citric 
acid, for I could not leave that house without speak¬ 
ing to her again. 

In a moment Mrs. Chester appeared from some inner 
room. I believe she suspected that I had something 
to say to her which had nothing to do with the bear 
or the Larramies, for I had been conscious that my 
speech had been a little rambling, as if I were earnestly 
thinking of something else than what I was saying, 
and that she desired I should be taken away without 
120 


BACK TO THE HOLLY SPRIG 


an opportunity to unburden my mind ; but now, bear¬ 
ing me tramping about and knowing that I was look¬ 
ing for her, she was obliged to show herself. 

As she came forward I noticed that her expression 
had changed somewhat. There was nothing merry 
about her eyes ; I think she was slightly pale, and her 
brows were a little contracted, as if she were doing 
something she did not want to do. 

“I hope you found everything all right,” she said. 

I looked at her steadily. “No,” said I, “everything 
is not all right.” 

A slight shade of anxiety came upon her face. “I 
am sorry to hear that,” she said. “Was your wheel 
injured more than you thought? ” 

“Wheel! ” I exclaimed. “I was not thinking of 
wheels ! I will tell you what is not all right. It is 
not right for me to go away without saying to you 
that I—” 

At this moment there was a strong, shrill whistle 
from the front of the house. A most unmistakable 
sense of relief showed itself upon her face. She ran 
to the front door, and called out, “Yes, he is coming.” 

There was nothing for me to do but to follow her. 
I greatly disliked going away without saying what I 
wanted to say, and I would have been willing to 
speak even at the front door, but she gave me no 
chance. 

“Good-by,” she said, extending her hand. It was 
gloved. It gave no clasp—it invited none. As I 
could not say the words which were on my tongue, I 
said nothing, and, raising my cap, I hurried away. 

To make up for lost time, Percy drove very rapidly. 
“I came mighty near having a fight while you were in 
121 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


the house/ 7 said he. “It was that boy at the inn. He 7 s 
a queer sort of a fellow, and awfully impertinent. 
He was talking about you, and he wanted to know if 
the bear had hurt you. He said he believed you were 
really afraid of the beast, and only wanted to show off 
before the women. 

“I stood up for you, and I told him about Edith’s 
runaway, and then he said, fair and square, that he 
didn’t believe you stopped the horse. He said he 
guessed my sister pulled him up herself, and that then 
you came along and grabbed him and took all the 
credit. He said he thought you were that sort of a 
fellow. 

“That’s the time I was going to pitch into him, but 
then I thought it would be a pretty low-down thing 
for me to be fighting a country tavern-boy, so I sim¬ 
ply gave him my opinion of him. I don’t believe 
he’d have held the horse, only he thought it would 
make you get away quicker. He hates you. Did you 
ever kick him or anything f ” 

I laughed, and, telling Percy that I had never 
kicked the boy, I thanked him for his championship 
of me. 


122 


CHAPTER XIII 


A MAN WITH A LETTER 

When my unfortunate bicycle bad been started on its 
way to Waterton, I threw myself into the family 
life of the Earramies, determined not to let them see 
any perturbations of mind which had been caused by 
the extraordinary promptness of the younger son. If 
a man had gone with me instead of that boy, I would 
have had every opportunity of saying what I wanted 
to say to the mistress of the Holly Sprig. I may state 
that I frequently found myself trying to determine 
what it was I wanted to say. 

I did my best to suppress all thoughts relating to 
things outside of this most hospitable and friendly 
house. I went to see the bear with the younger mem¬ 
bers of the family. I played four games of tennis, 
and in the afternoon the whole family went to fish 
in a very pretty mill-pond about a mile from the 
house. A good many fish were caught, large and small, 
and not one of the female fishers, except Miss Wil¬ 
loughby, the nervous young lady, and little Clara, 
would allow me to take a fish from her hook. Even 
Mrs. Larramie said that if she fished at all she thought 
she ought to do everything for herself, and not depend 
upon other people. 


123 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


As much as possible I tried to be with Mr. Larra- 
mie and Walter. I had not the slightest distaste for 
the company of the ladies, but there was a conscious¬ 
ness upon me that there were pleasant things in which 
a man ought to restrict himself. There was nothing 
chronic about this consciousness. It was on duty for 
this occasion only. 

That night at the supper-table the conversation 
took a peculiar turn. Mr. Larramie was the chief 
speaker, and it pleased him to hold forth upon the 
merits of Mrs. Chester. He said, and his wife and 
others of the company agreed with him, that she was 
a lady of peculiarly estimable character; that she was 
out of place $ that every one who knew her well felt 
that she was out of place $ but that she so graced her 
position that she almost raised it to her level. Over 
and over again her friends had said to her that a lady 
such as she was—still young, of a good family, well 
educated, who had travelled, and moved in excellent 
society—should not continue to be the landlady of a 
country inn, but the advice of her friends had had no 
effect upon her. 

It was not known whether it was necessary for her 
to continue the inn-keeping business, but the general 
belief was that it was not necessary. It was sup¬ 
posed that she had had money when she married 
Godfrey Chester, and he was not a poor man. 

Then came a strange revelation, which Mr. Lar¬ 
ramie dwelt upon with considerable earnestness. 
There was an idea, he said, that Mrs. Chester kept up 
the Holly Sprig because she thought it would be her 
husband’s wish that she should do so. He had prob¬ 
ably said something about its being a provision for 
124 


A MAN WITH A LETTER 


her in case of his death. At any rate, she seemed 
desirous to maintain the establishment exactly as he 
had ordered it in his life, making no change what¬ 
ever, very much as if she had expected him to come 
back, and wished him to find everything as he had 
left it. 

“Of course she doesn’t expect him to come back,” 
said Mr. Larramie, “because it must now be four 
years since the time of his supposed murder—” 

“Supposed! ” I cried, with much more excited 
interest than I would have shown if I had taken 
proper thought before speaking. 

“Well,” said Mr. Larramie, “that is a fine point. I 
said 1 supposed’ because the facts of the case are not 
definitely known. There can be no reasonable doubt, 
however, that he is dead, for even if this fact had not 
been conclusively proved by the police investigations, 
it might now be considered proved by his continued 
absence. It would have been impossible for Mr. 
Chester alive to keep away from his wife for four 
years—they were devoted to each other. Further¬ 
more, the exact manner of his death is not known— 
although it must have been a murder—and for these 
reasons I used the word 1 supposed.’ But, really, so 
far as human judgment can go, the whole matter is a 
certainty. I have not the slightest doubt in the 
world that Mrs. Chester so considers it, and yet, as 
she does not positively know it,—as she has not the 
actual proofs that her husband is no longer living,— 
she refuses in certain ways, in certain ways only, to 
consider herself a widow.” 

“And what ways are those?” I asked, in a voice 
which, I hope, exhibited no undue emotion. 

125 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“She declines to marry again,” said Mrs. Larramie, 
now taking up the conversation. “Of course, such a 
pretty woman—I may say, such a charming woman 
—would have admirers, and I know that she has had 
some most excellent offers, but she has always refused 
to consider any of them. There was one gentleman, 
a man of wealth and position, who had proposed to 
her before she married Mr. Chester, who came on 
here to offer himself again, but she cut off everything 
he had to say by telling him that as she did not posi¬ 
tively know that her husband was not living, she 
could not allow a word of that sort to be said to her. 
I know this, because she told me so herself.” 

There was a good deal more talk of the sort, and of 
course it interested me greatly, although I tried not 
to show it, but I could not help wondering why the 
subject had been brought forward in such an impres¬ 
sive manner upon the present occasion. It seemed to 
me that there was something personal in it—personal 
to me. Had that boy Percy been making reports ? 

In the evening I found out all about it, and in a 
very straightforward and direct fashion. I dis¬ 
covered Miss Edith by herself, and asked her if all 
that talk about Mrs. Chester had been intended for 
my benefit, and, if so, why. 

She laughed. “I expected you to come and ask 
me about that,” she said, “for of course you could see 
through a good deal of it. It is all father’s kindness 
and goodness. Percy was a little out of temper when 
he came back, and he spun a yarn about your being 
sweet on Mrs. Chester, and how he could hardly get 
you away from her, and all that. He had an idea 
that you wanted to go there and live, at least for the 
126 


A MAN WITH A LETTER 


summer. Something a boy said to him made him 
think that. So father thought that if you had any 
notions about Mrs. Chester you ought to have the 
matter placed properly before you without any delay, 
and I expect his reason for mentioning it at the sup¬ 
per-table was that it might then seem like a general 
subject of conversation, whereas it would have been 
very pointed indeed if he had taken you apart and 
talked to you about it.” 

“Indeed it would,” said I. “And if you will allow 
me, I will say that boys are unmitigated nuisances! 
If they are not hearing what they ought not to 
hear, they are imagining what they ought not to 
imagine—” 

“And telling things that they ought not to tell,” she 
added, with a laugh. 

“Which is an extremely bad thing,” said I, “when 
there is nothing to tell.” 

For the rest of that evening I was more lively than 
is my wont, for it was a very easy thing to be lively 
in that family. I do not think I gave any one reason 
to suppose that I was a man whose attention had been 
called to a notice not to trespass. 

As usual, I communed with myself before going to 
bed. Wherefore this feeling of disappointment? 
What did it mean? Would I have said anything of 
importance, of moment, to Mrs. Chester, if the boy 
Percy had given me an opportunity? What would I 
have said? What could I have said? I could see 
that she did not wish that I should say anything, and 
now I knew the reason for it. It was all plain enough 
on her side. Even if she had allowed herself any 
sort of emotion regarding me, she did not wish me to 
127 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


indulge in anything of the kind. But as for myself 
—I could decide nothing about myself. 

I smiled grimly as my eyes fell upon the little box 
of capsules. My first thought was that I should take 
two of them, but then I shook my head. “It would be 
utterly useless,” I said ; “they would do me no good.” 

In the course of the next morning I found myself 
alone. I put on my cap, lighted a pipe, and started 
down the flag walk to the gate. In a few moments I 
heard running steps behind me, and, turning, I saw 
Miss Edith. “Don’t look cross,” she said. “Were 
you going for a walk ? ” 

I scouted the idea of crossness, and said that I had 
thought of taking a stroll. 

“That seems funny,” said she, “for nobody in this 
house ever goes out for a lonely walk. But you can¬ 
not go just yet. There’s a man at the back of the 
house with a letter for you.” 

“A letter! ” I exclaimed. “Who in the world 
could have sent a letter to me here ? ” 

“The only way to find out,” she answered, “is to go 
and see.” 

Under a tree at the back of the house I found a 
young negro man, very warm and dusty, who handed 
me a letter, which, to my surprise, bore no address. 
“How do you know this is for me!” said I. 

He was a good-natured-looking fellow. “Oh, I 
know it’s for you, sir,” said he. “They told me at 
the little tavern—the Holly something—that I’d find 
you here. You’re the gentleman that had a bicycle 
tire eat up by a bear, ain’t you? ” 

I admitted that I was, and, still without opening 
the letter, I asked him where it came from. 

128 


A MAN WITH A LETTER 


“That was given to me in New York, sir,” said he, 
“by a Dago, one of these I-talians. He gave me the 
money to go to Blackburn Station in the cars, and 
then I walked over to the tavern. He said he thought 
I’d find you there, sir. He told me just what sort of 
a lookin’ man you was, sir, and that letter is for you, 
and no mistake. He didn’t know your name, or he’d 
put it on.” 

“Oh, it is from the owner of the bear,” said I. 

“Yes, sir,” said the man, “that’s him. He did own 
a bear—he told me—that eat up your tire.” 

I now tore open the blank envelope, and found it 
contained a letter on a single sheet, and in this was a 
folded paper, very dirty. The letter was apparently 
written in Italian, and had no signature. I ran my eye 
along the opening lines, and soon found that it would 
be a very difficult piece of business for me to read it. I 
was a fair French and German scholar, but my knowl¬ 
edge of Italian was due entirely to its relationship 
with Latin. I told the man to rest himself some¬ 
where, and went to the house, and, finding Miss 
Edith, I informed her that I had a letter from the 
bear man, and asked her if she could read Italian. 

“I studied the language at school,” she said, “but 
I have not practised much. However, let us go into 
the library—there is a dictionary there—and perhaps 
we can spell it out.” 

We spread the open sheet upon the library-table, 
and laid the folded paper near by, and, sitting side 
by side, with a dictionary before us, we went to work. 
It was very hard work. 

“I think,” said my companion, after ten minutes’ 
application, “that the man who sent you this letter 
129 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


writes Italian about as badly as we read it. I think 
I could decipher the meaning of his words if I knew 
what letters those funny scratches were intended to 
represent. But let us stick to it. After a while we 
may get a little used to the writing, and I must admit 
that I have a curiosity to know what the man has to 
say about his bear.” 

After a time the work became easier. Miss Edith 
possessed an acuteness of perception which enabled 
her to decipher almost illegible words by comparing 
them with others which were better written. We 
were at last enabled to translate the letter. The sub¬ 
stance of it was as follows : 

The writer came to New York on a ship. There 
was a man on the ship, an Italian man, who was very 
wicked. He did very wicked things to the writer. 
When he got to New York he kept on being wicked. 
He was so wicked that the writer made up his mind 
to kill him. He waited for him one night for two 
hours. 

At last the moment came. It was very dark, and 
the victim came, walking fast. The avenger sprang 
from a doorway, and plunged his knife into the back 
of the victim. The man fell, and the moment he fell 
the writer of the letter knew that he was not the man 
he had intended to kill. The wicked man would not 
have been killed so easily. He turned over the man. 
He was dead. His eyes were used to the darkness, 
and he could see that he was the wrong man. 

The coat of the murdered man had fallen open, and 
a paper showed itself in an inside pocket. The Italian 
waited only long enough to snatch this paper. He 
wanted to have something which had belonged to that 
130 


A MAN WITH A LETTER 


poor, wrongly murdered man. After that he heard no 
more about the great mistake he had committed. He 
could not read the newspapers, and he asked nobody 
any questions. He put the paper away and kept it. 
He often thought he ought to burn the paper, but he 
did not do it. He was afraid. The paper had a name 
on it, and he was sure it was the name of the man he 
had killed. He thought as long as he kept the paper 
there was a chance for his forgiveness. 

This was all four years ago. He worked hard, and 
after a while he bought a bear. When his bear ate up 
the India-rubber on my bicycle he was very much 
frightened, for he was afraid he might be sent to 
prison. But that was not the fright that made him 
run away. 

When he talked to the boy and asked him the name 
of the keeper of the inn, and the boy told him what it 
was, the earth seemed to open and he saw hell. The 
name was the name that was on the paper he had 
taken from the man he had killed by mistake, and 
this was his wife whose house he was staying at. He 
was seized with such a horror and such a fear that 
everything might be found out, and that he would be 
arrested, that he ran away to the railroad and took a 
train for ISTew York. 

*' He did not want his bear. He did not want to be 
known as the man who had been going about with a 
bear. One thing n he wanted, and that was to get back 
to Italy, where he would be safe. He was going 
back very soon in a ship. He had changed his name. 
He could not be found any more. 

But he knew his soul would never have any peace 
if he did not send the paper to the wife of the man he 
131 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


had made a mistake about. But he could not write a 
letter to her, so he sent it to me, for me to give her 
the paper and to tell her what he had written in the 
letter. He left America forever. Hobody in this 
country would ever see him again. He was gone. He 
was lost to all people in this country, but his soul felt 
better now that he had done that which would make 
the lady whose husband he had killed know how it 
had happened. The bear he would give to her. That 
was all that he could do for her. 

There was no formal close to the letter j the writer 
had said what he had to say and stopped. 

Miss Edith and I looked at each other. Her eyes 
had grown large and bright. “How, shall we examine 
the paper ? ” 

“I do not know that we have a right to do so,” I said. 
I know my voice was trembling, for I was very much 
agitated. “That belongs to—to her ! ” 

“I think,” said Miss Edith, “that we ought to look 
at it. It is merely a folded paper. I do not think we 
ought to thrust information upon Mrs. Chester with¬ 
out knowing what it is. Perhaps the man made a 
mistake in the name. We may do a great deal of mis¬ 
chief if we do not know exactly what we are about.” 
And so saying she took the paper and opened it. 

It was nothing but a grocery bill, but it was made 
out to—Godfrey Chester, Dr. Evidently it was for 
goods supplied to the inn. It was receipted. 

For a few moments I said nothing, and then I ex¬ 
claimed, in tones which made my companion gaze 
very earnestly at me : “I must go to her immediately ! 
I must take these papers! She must know every¬ 
thing ! ” 


132 


A MAN WITH A LETTER 


“Excuse me,” said Miss Edith, “but don’t you think 
that something ought to be done about apprehending 
this man—this Italian? Let us go and question his 
messenger.” We went out together, she carrying, 
tightly clasped, both the letter and the bill. 

The black man could tell us very little. An Italian 
he had never seen before had given him the letter to 
take to Holly Sprig Inn, and give to the gentleman 
who had had his tire eaten by a bear. If the gentle¬ 
man was not there, he was to ask to have it sent to 
him. That was everything he knew. 

“Did the Italian give you money to go back with? ” 
asked Miss Edith, and the man rather reluctantly ad¬ 
mitted that he did. 

“Well, you can keep that for yourself,” said she, 
“and we’ll pay your passage back. But we would 
like you to wait here for a while. There may be 
some sort of an answer.” 

The man laughed. “ ’Taint no use sendin’ no an¬ 
swer,” said he; “I couldn’t find that Dago again. 
They’re all so much alike. He said he was goin’ 
away on a ship. You see it was yesterday he gave me 
that letter. I ’spect he’ll be a long way out to sea 
before I get back, even if I did know who he was and 
what ship he was goin’ on. But if you want me to 
wait, I don’t mind waitin’.” 

“Very good,” said Miss Edith; “you can go into 
the kitchen and have something to eat.” And, calling 
a maid, she gave orders for the man’s entertainment. 

“How,” said she, turning to me, “let us take a walk 
through the orchard. I want to talk to you.” 

“Ho,” said I, “I can’t talk at present. I must go 
immediately to the inn with those papers. It is right 
133 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


that not a moment should be lost in delivering this 
most momentous message which has been intrusted to 
me.” 

“But I must speak to you first,” said she, and she 
walked rapidly toward the orchard. As she still 
held the papers in her hand, I was obliged to follow 
her. 


134 


CHAPTER XIV 

MISS EDITH IS DISAPPOINTED 

As soon as we had begun to walk under the apple-trees 
she turned to me and said : “I don’t think you ought 
to take this letter and the bill to Mrs. Chester. It 
would not be right. There would be something cruel 
about it.” 

“What do you mean? ” I exclaimed. 

“Of course I do not know exactly the state of the 
case,” she answered, “but I will tell you what I think 
about it as far as I know. You must not be offended 
at what I say. If I am a friend to anybody—and I 
would be ashamed if I were not a friend to you—I 
must tell him just what I think about things, and this 
is what I think about this thing: I ought to take 
these papers to Mrs. Chester. I know her well 
enough, and it is a woman who ought to go to her at 
such a time.” 

“That message was intrusted to me,” I said. 

“Of course it was,” she answered, “but the bear 
man did not know what he was doing. He did not 
understand the circumstances.” 

“What circumstances?” I asked. 

She gave me a look as if she were going to take aim 
at me and wanted to be sure of my position. Then 
135 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


she said: “ Percy told us he thought you were court¬ 
ing Mrs. Chester. That was pure impertinence on his 
part, and perhaps what father said at the table was 
impertinence too, but I know he said it because he 
thought there might be something in Percy’s chatter, 
and that you ought to understand how things stood. 
Now, you may think it impertinence on my part if 
you choose, but it really does seem to me that you are 
yery much interested in Mrs. Chester. Didn’t you in¬ 
tend to walk down to the Holly Sprig when you were 
starting out by yourself this morning ? ” 

“Yes,” said I, “I did.” 

“I thought so,” she replied. “That, of course, was 
your own business, and what father said about her be¬ 
ing unwilling to marry again need not have made any 
difference to you if you had chosen not to mind it. 
But now, don’t you think, if you look at the matter 
fairly and squarely, it would be pretty hard on Mrs. 
Chester if you were to go down to her and make her 
understand that she really is a widow, and that now 
she is free to listen to you if you want to say anything to 
her ? This may sound a little hard and cruel, but don’t 
you think it is the way she would have to look at it? ” 

She stopped as she spoke, and I turned and stood 
silent, looking at her. 

“My first thought was,” she said, “to advise you to 
tell father about all this, and take his advice about 
telling her, but I don’t think you would like that. 
Now, would you like that?” 

“No,” I answered, “I certainly would not.” 

“And don’t you really think I ought to go to her 
with the message, and then come back and tell you 
how she took it and what she said?” 

13fi 


MISS EDITH IS DISAPPOINTED 


For nearly a minute I did not speak, but I knew 
she was right, and at last I admitted it. 

“I am glad to hear yon say so! ” she exclaimed. 
“As soon as dinner is over I shall drive to the Holly 
Sprig.” 

We still walked on, and she proposed that we should 
go to the top of a hill beyond the orchard, where 
there was a pretty view. 

“Yon may think me a strange sort of a girl,” she 
said, presently, “bnt I can’t help it. I suppose I am 
strange. I have often thought I would like very 
much to talk freely and honestly with a man about 
the reasons which people have for falling in love with 
each other. Of course I could not ask my father or 
brother, because they would simply laugh at me and 
tell me that falling in love was very much like the 
springing up of weeds—generally without reason and 
often objectionable. But you would be more likely 
to tell me something which would be of advantage to 
me in my studies.” 

“Your studies!” I exclaimed. “What in the 
world are you studying! 

“Well, I am studying human nature,—not as a 
whole, of course; that's too large a subject, but cer¬ 
tain phases of it,—and I particularly want to know 
why such queer people come together and get mar¬ 
ried. Nowl have great advantages in such a study, 
much greater than most girls have.” 

“What are they!” I asked. 

“The principal one is that I never intend to marry. 
I made up my mind to that a good while ago. There 
is a great deal of work that I want to do in this 
world, and I could not do it properly if I were tied 
137 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


to a man. I would either have to submit myself to 
his ways, or he would have to submit himself to my 
ways, and that would not suit me. In the one case I 
should not respect him, and in the other I should not 
respect myself.” 

“But suppose,” said I, “you should meet a man 
who should be in perfect harmony with you in all 
important points ? ” 

“Ah,” she said, “that sort of thing never happens. 
You might as well expect to pick up two pebbles ex¬ 
actly alike. I don’t believe in it. But if at any 
time during the rest of my life you show me any ex¬ 
amples of such harmony, I will change my opinions. 
I believe that if I can wait long enough, society will 
catch up with me. Everything looks that way to 
me.” 

“It may be that you are right,” I answered. “So¬ 
ciety is getting on famously. But what is it you 
want to ask me ? ” 

“Simply this,” she replied. “ What is it which in¬ 
terests you so much in Mrs. Chester?” 

I looked at her in astonishment. “Truly,” I ex¬ 
claimed, “that is a remarkable question ! ” 

“I know it,” she replied, “and I suppose you are 
saying to yourself, c Here is a girl who has known me 
less than three days, and yet she asks me to tell her 
about my feeling toward another woman.’ But, 
really, it seems to me that as you have not known 
that other woman three days, as much friendship and 
confidence might spring up in the one case as affec¬ 
tion in the other.” 

“Affection ! ” said I. “Have I said anything about 
affection?” 


138 


MISS EDITH IS DISAPPOINTED 


“No, you have not,” she replied; “and if there 
isn’t any affection, of course that ends this special 
study on my part.” 

¥e reached the top of the hill, but I forgot to look 
out upon the view. “I think you are a strange 
girl,” I said, “but I like you, and I have a mind to 
try to answer your question. I have not been able 
quite to satisfy myself about my feelings toward 
Mrs. Chester, but now I think I can say that I have 
an affection for her.” 

“Good ! ” she exclaimed. “I like that! That is an 
honest answer if ever there was one. But tell me 
why it is that you have an affection for her. It must 
have been almost a case of love at first sight.” 

“It isn’t easy to give reasons for such feelings,” I 
said. “They spring up, as your father would say, 
very much like weeds.” 

“Indeed they do,” she interpolated; “sometimes 
they grow in the middle of a gravel path where they 
cannot expect to be allowed to stay.” 

I reflected a moment. “I don’t mind talking about 
these things to you,” I said. “It seems almost like 
talking to myself.” 

“That is a compliment I appreciate,” she said. 
“And now go on. Why do you care for her f ” 

“Well,” said I, “in the first place, she is very 
handsome. Don’t you think so ! ” 

“Oh, yes! In fact, I think she is almost what 
might be called exactly beautiful.” 

“Then she has such charming manners,” I continued. 
“And she is so sensible—although you may not think 
I had much chance to find out that. Moreover, there 
is a certain sympathetic cordiality about her—” 

139 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“Which, of course,” interrupted my companion, 
“you suppose she would not show to any man but 
you.” 

“Yes,” said I. “I am speaking honestly now, and 
that’s the way it strikes me. Of course I may be a 
fool, but I did think that a sympathy had arisen be¬ 
tween us which would not arise between her and 
anybody else.” 

Miss Edith laughed heartily. “I am getting to 
know a great deal about one side of the subject,” she 
said. “And now tell me—is that all? I don’t be¬ 
lieve it is.” 

“No,” I answered, “it is not. There is something 
more which makes her attractive to me. I cannot 
exactly explain it except by saying that it is her sur¬ 
rounding atmosphere—it is everything that pertains 
to her. It is the life she lives; it is her home ,• it is 
the beauty and peace, the sense of charm which in¬ 
fuses her and everything that belongs to her.” 

“Beautiful! ” said Miss Edith. “I expected an 
answer like that, but not so well put. Now let me 
translate it into plain, simple language. What you 
want is to give up your present life, which must be 
awfully stupid, and go and help Mrs. Chester keep 
the Holly Sprig. That would suit you exactly. A 
charming wife, charming surroundings, charming 
sense of living, a life of absolute independence ! But 
don’t think,” she added, quickly, “that I am imput¬ 
ing any sordid motives to you. I meant nothing of 
the kind. You would do just as much to make the 
inn popular as she would. I expect you would make 
her rich.” 

“Miss Edith Larramie,” said I, “you are a heart- 
140 


MISS EDITH IS DISAPPOINTED 


less deceiver! It makes my blood run cold to hear 
you speak in that way.” 

“Never mind that,” she said, “but tell me, didn’t 
you think it would be just lovely to live with her in 
that delightful little inn ? ” 

I could not help smiling at her earnestness, but I 
answered that I did think so. 

She nodded her head reflectively. “Yes,” she 
said, “I was right. I think you ought to admit that 
I am a good judge of human nature—at least, in some 
people and under certain circumstances.” 

“You are,” said I. “I admit that. Now answer 
me a question. What do you think of it ? ” 

“I don’t like it,” she said. “And don’t you see,” 
she added, with animation, “what an advantage I 
possess in having determined never to marry? Very 
few other girls would be willing to speak to you so 
plainly. They would be afraid you would think that 
they wanted you, but, as I don’t want anybody, you 
and I can talk over things of this kind like free and 
equal human beings. So I will say again that I don’t 
like your affection for Mrs. Chester. It disappoints 
me.” 

“Disappoints you ! ” I exclaimed. 

“Yes,” she said, “that is the word. You must 
remember that my acquaintance with you began with 
a sort of a bump. A great deal happened in an in¬ 
stant. I formed high ideas of you, and among them 
were ideas of the future. You can’t help that when 
you are thinking of people who interest you. Your 
mind will run ahead. When I found out about Mrs. 
Chester I was disappointed. It might be all very 
delightful, but you ought to do better than that! ” 
141 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“How old are yon?" I asked. 

“Twenty-two last May,” she replied. 

“Isn't that the dinner-bell I hear in the distance? " 
I said. 

“Yes/' she answered, “and we will go down." 

On the way she stopped, and we stood facing each 
other. “I am greatly obliged to you," she said, “for 
giving me your confidence in this way, and I want 
you to believe that I shall be thoroughly loyal to you, 
and that I never will breathe anything you have 
said. But I also want you to know that I do not 
change any of my opinions. How we understand 
each other, don't we ? " 

“Yes," I answered, “but I think I understand you 
better than you understand me." 

“Hot a bit of it," she replied; “that’s nonsense. 
Ho you see that flower-pot on the top of the stump 
by the little hill over there? Percy has been firing 
at it with his air-gun. Ho you think you could hit it 
with an apple? Let’s each take three apples and 
try." 

It was late in the afternoon when Miss Edith 
returned from the Holly Sprig, where she and Gene¬ 
vieve had driven in a pony-cart. I was with the 
rest of the family on the golf links a short distance 
from the house, and it was some time before she got 
a chance to speak to me, but she managed at last. 

“How did she take the news?" I eagerly asked. 

The girl hesitated. “I don't think I ought to tell 
you all she said and did. It was really a private 
interview between us two, and I know she would not 
want me to say much about it. And I don’t think 
you would want to hear everything." 

142 


MISS EDITH IS DISAPPOINTED 


I hastened to assure her that I would not ask for 
the particulars of the conversation. I only wished 
to know the general effect of the message upon her. 
That was legitimate enough, as, in fact, she received 
the message through me. 

“Well, she was very much affected, and it would 
have been dreadful if you had gone. On the whole, 
however, I cannot help thinking that the Italian’s 
letter was a great relief to her, particularly because 
she found that her husband had been killed by mis¬ 
take. She said that one of the greatest loads upon 
her soul had been the feeling that he had had an 
enemy who hated him enough to kill him. But now 
the case is very different, and it is a great comfort to 
her to know it.” 

“And about the murderer?” I said. “Did you 
ask her if she wanted steps taken to apprehend 
him?” 

“Yes,” she said, “I did speak of it, and she is very 
anxious that nothing shall be done in that direction. 
Even if the Italian should be caught, she would not 
have the affair again publicly discussed and dissected. 
She believes the man’s story, and she never wants to 
hear of him again. Indeed, I think that if it should be 
proved that the Italian killed Mr. Chester on purpose, 
it would be the greatest blow that could be inflicted 
upon her.” 

“Then,” said I, “I might as well let the negro man 
go his way. I have not paid him his passage-money 
to the city. I knew he would wait until he got it, 
and it might be desirable to take him into custody.” 

“Oh, no,” she said. “Mrs. Chester spoke about that. 
She doesn’t want the man troubled in any way. He 
113 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


knew nothing of the message he carried. Now I am 
going to tell father about it—she asked me to do it .’ 7 

That evening was a merry one. We had charades, 
and a good many other things were going on. Miss 
Willoughby was an admirable actress, and Miss Edith 
was not bad, although she could never get rid of her 
personality. I was in a singular state of mind. I felt 
as if I had been relieved from a weight. My spirits 
were actually buoyant. 

“You should not be so unreasonably gay / 7 said Miss 
Edith to me. “That may be your way when you get 
better acquainted with people, but I am afraid some 
of the family will think that you are in such good 
spirits because Mrs. Chester now knows that she is a 
widow . 77 

“Oh, there is no danger of their thinking anything 
of that sort , 77 I said. “Don’t you suppose they will 
attribute my good spirits to the fact that the man who 
took my bicycle to Waterton brought back my big 
valise, so that I am enabled to look like a gentleman 
in the parlor? And then, as he also brought word 
that my bicycle will be all ready for me to-morrow, 
don’t you think it is to be expected of me that I 
should try to make myself as agreeable as possible on 
this my last evening with all you good friends ? 77 

She shook her head. “Those excuses will not pass. 
You are abnormally cheerful. My study of you is ex¬ 
tremely interesting, but not altogether satisfactory . 77 


144 


CHAPTER XV 


MISS WILLOUGHBY 

It was decreed the next day that I should not leave 
until after dinner. They would send me over to 
Blackburn Station by a cross-road, and I could then 
reach Waterton in less than an hour. “There is an¬ 
other good thing about this arrangement/’ said Miss 
Edith, for it was she who announced it to me, “and 
that is that you can take charge of Amy.” 

I gazed at her mystified, and she said, “Don’t you 
know that Miss Willoughby is going in the same train 
with you? ” 

“What! ” I exclaimed, far too forcibly. 

“Yes. Her visit ends to-day. She lives in Water- 
ton. But why should that affect you so wonderfully? 
I am sure you cannot object to an hour in the train 
with Amy Willoughby. She may talk a good deal, but 
you must admit that she talks well.” 

“Object! ” I said. “Of course I don’t object. She 
talks very well indeed, and I shall be glad to have the 
pleasure of her company.” 

“Xo one would have thought so,” she said, looking 
at me with a criticising eye, “who had seen you when 
you heard she was going.” 

“It was the suddenness,” I said. 

145 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“Oh, yes,” she replied, “and your delicate nerves.” 

In my soul I cried out to myself: “Am I ever to break 
free from young women! Is there to be a railroad 
accident between here and Waterton ! If so, I shall 
save the nearest old gentleman ! ” 

I believe the Larramies were truly sorry to have me 
go. Each one of them in turn told me so. Mrs. Lar- 
ramie again said to me, with tears in her eyes, that it 
made her shudder to think what that home might be 
if it had not been for me. 

Mr. Larramie and Walter promised to get up some 
fine excursions if I would stay a little longer, and 
Genevieve made me sit down beside her under a tree. 

“I am awfully sorry you are going,” she said. “I 
always wanted a gentleman friend, and I believe if 
you’d stay a little longer you’d be one. You see, 
Walter is really too old for me to confide in, and 
Percy thinks he’s too old—and that’s a great deal 
worse. But you’re just the age I like. There are so 
many things I would say to you if you lived here.” 

Little Clara cried when she heard I was going, and 
I felt myself obliged to commit the shameful decep¬ 
tion of talking about baby bears and my possible re¬ 
turn to this place. 

Miss Edith accompanied us to the station, and when 
I took leave of her on the platform she gave me a 
good, hearty handshake. “I believe that we shall see 
each other again,” she said, “and when we meet I 
want you to make a report, and I hope it will be a 
good one! ” 

“About what?” I asked. 

She smiled in gentle derision, and the conductor 
cried, “All aboard ! ” 


146 


MISS WILLOUGHBY 


I found a vacant seat, and, side by side, Miss Wil¬ 
loughby and I sped on toward Waterton. 

For some time I had noticed that Miss Willoughby 
had ceased to look past me when she spoke to me, 
and now she fixed her eyes fully upon me and said : 

“I am always sorry when I go away from that house, 
for I think the people who live there are the dearest 
in the world, excepting my own mother and aunt, 
who are nearer to me than anybody else, although, if 
I needed a mother, Mrs. Larramie would take me to 
her heart, I am sure, just as if I were her own daugh¬ 
ter, and I am not related to them in any way, although 
I have always looked upon Edith as a sister, and I 
don’t believe that if I had a real sister she could pos¬ 
sibly have been as dear a girl as Edith, who is so lov¬ 
able and tender and forgiving,—whenever there is any¬ 
thing to forgive,—and who, although she is a girl of 
such strong character and such a very peculiar way of 
thinking about things, has never said a hard word to 
me in all her life, even when she found that our opin¬ 
ions were different, which was something she often did 
find, for she looks upon everything in this world in 
her own way, and bases all her judgments upon her 
own observations and convictions, while I am very 
willing to let those whom I think I ought to look up 
to and respect judge for me—at least in a great many 
things, but of course not in all matters, for there are 
some things which we must decide for ourselves with¬ 
out reference to other people’s opinions, though I 
should be sorry indeed if I had so many things to de¬ 
cide as Edith has, or rather chooses to have, for if she 
would depend more upon other people I think it 
would not only be easier for her, but really make her 
147 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


happier, for if you could hear some of the wonderful 
things which she has discussed with me after we have 
gone to bed at night it would really make your head 
ache—that is, if you are subject to that sort of thing, 
which I am if I am kept awake too long, but I am 
proud to say that I don’t think I ever allowed Edith 
to suppose that I was tired of hearing her talk, for 
when any one is as lovely as she is I think she ought 
to be allowed to talk about what she pleases and just 
as long as she pleases.” 

Surprising as it may appear, nothing happened on 
that railroad journey. ~No cow of Cathay blundered 
in front of the locomotive; no freight train came 
around a curve going in the opposite direction upon 
the same track; everything went smoothly and ac¬ 
cording to schedule. Miss Willoughby did not talk 
all the time. She was not the greatest talker I ever 
knew j she was not even the fastest; she was always 
willing to wait until her turn came : but she had won¬ 
derful endurance for a steady stretch. She never made 
a bad start, she never broke, she went steadily over 
the track until the heat had been run. 

When the time came for me to speak she listened 
with great interest, and sometimes at my words her 
eyes sparkled almost as much as they did when she 
was speaking herself. She knew a great many things, 
and I was pleased to find out that she was especially 
interested in the good qualities of the people she 
knew. I never heard so many gracious sentiments in 
so short a time. 

Miss Willoughby’s residence was but a short dis¬ 
tance from the station at W aterton; and as she 
thought it entirely unnecessary to take a cab, I 
148 


MISS WILLOUGHBY 


attended to lier baggage, and offered to walk with her 
to her home and carry her little bag. I was about to 
leave her at the door, but this she positively forbade. 
I must step in for a minute or two to see her mother 
and her aunt. They had heard of me, and would 
never forgive her if she let me go without their see¬ 
ing me. As the door opened immediately, we went 
in. 

Miss Willoughby’s mother and aunt were two most 
charming elderly ladies, immaculately dainty in their 
dress, cordial of manner, bright of eye, and diminu¬ 
tive of hand, producing the impression of gentle good¬ 
ness set off by soft white muslin, folded tenderly. 

They had heard of me. In the few days in which 
I had been with the Larramies, Miss Willoughby had 
written of me. They insisted that I should stay to 
supper, for what good reason could there be for my 
taking that meal at the hotel—not a very good one— 
when they would be so glad to have me sup with them 
and talk about our mutual friends f 

I had no reasonable objection to offer, and, return¬ 
ing to the station, I took my baggage to the hotel, 
where I prepared to sup with the Willoughby family. 

They were now a little family of three, although 
there was a brother who had started away the day 
before on a bicycling tour very like my own, and 
they were both so delighted to have Amy visit the 
Larramies, and they were both so delighted to have 
her come back. 

The supper was a delicate one, suitable for canary 
birds, but at an early stage of the meal a savory little 
sirloin steak was brought on which had been cooked 
especially for me. Of course I could not be expected 
149 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


to be satisfied with thin dainties, no matter how taste¬ 
ful they might be. 

This house was the abode of intelligence, cultivated 
taste, and opulence. It was probably the finest man¬ 
sion of the town. In every room there were things 
to see, and after supper we looked at them, and, as I 
wandered from pictures to vases and carved ivory, 
the remarks of the two elder ladies and Miss Wil¬ 
loughby seemed like a harmonized chorus accom¬ 
panying the rest of the performance. Each spoke at 
the right time, each in her turn said the thing she 
ought to say. It was a rare exhibition of hospitable 
enthusiasm, tempered by sympathetic consideration 
for me and for each other. 

I soon discovered that many of the water-color 
drawings on the walls were the work of Miss Wil¬ 
loughby, and when she saw I was interested in them 
she produced a portfolio of her sketches. I liked her 
coloring very much. It was sometimes better than 
her drawing. It was dainty, delicate, and suggestive. 
One picture attracted me the moment my eyes fell 
upon it 5 it was one of the most carefully executed, 
and it represented the Holly Sprig Inn. 

“You recognize that! ” said Miss Willoughby, evi¬ 
dently pleased. “You see that light-colored spot in 
the portico f That’s Mrs. Chester; she stood there 
when I was making the drawing. It is nothing but 
two or three little dabs, but that is the way she 
looked at a distance. Around on this side is the cor¬ 
ner of the yard where the bear tried to eat up the 
tire of your bicycle.” 

I gazed and gazed at the little light-colored spot in 
the portico. I gave it form, light, feeling. I could 
150 


MISS WILLOUGHBY 


see perfect features, blue eyes which looked out at 
me, a form of simple grace. 

I held that picture a good while, saying little, and 
scarcely listening to Miss Willoughby’s words. At 
last I felt obliged to replace it in the portfolio. If 
the artist had been a poor girl, I would have offered 
to buy it; if I had known her better, I would have 
asked her to give it to me$ but I could do nothing 
but put it back. 

Glancing at the clock I saw that it was time for me 
to go, but when I announced this fact the ladies very 
much demurred. Why should I go to that uncom¬ 
fortable hotel? They would send for my baggage. 
There was not the least reason in the world why I 
should spend the night in that second-rate establish¬ 
ment. 

“See,” said Mrs. Willoughby, opening the door of 
a room in the rear of the parlor. “If you will stay 
with us to-night we will lodge you in the chamber of 
the favored guest. All the pictures on the walls were 
done by my daughter.” 

I looked into the room. It was the most charming 
and luxurious bedroom I had ever seen. It was 
lighted, and the harmony of its furnishings was a 
treat to the eye. 

But I stood firm in my purpose to depart. I would 
not spend the night in that house. There would be 
a fire, burglars, I knew not what! Against all kind 
entreaties I urged the absolute necessity of my start¬ 
ing away by the very break of day, and I could not 
disturb a private family by any such proceeding. 
They saw that I was determined to go, and they 
allowed me to depart. 


151 


CHAPTER XVI 


AN ICICLE 

My room at the hotel was as dreary as a stubble- 
field upon a November evening. The whole house 
was new, varnished, and hard. My bedroom was small. 
A piece of new ingrain carpet covered part of the 
hard varnished floor. Four hard walls and a ceiling, 
deadly white, surrounded me. The hard varnished 
bedstead (the mattress felt as if it were varnished) 
nearly filled the little room. Two stiff chairs, and a 
yellow window-shade which looked as if it were made 
of varnished wood, glittered in the feeble light of a 
glass lamp, while the ghastly grayish pallor of the 
ewer and basin on the wash-stand was thrown into 
bold relief by the intenser whiteness of the wall be¬ 
hind it. 

I put out my light as soon as possible and resolutely 
closed my eyes, for a street lamp opposite my window 
would not allow the room to fade into obscurity, and, 
as long as the hardness of the bed prevented me from 
sleeping, my thoughts ran back to the chamber of the 
favored guest, but my conscience stood by me. Cathay 
is a country where it is necessary to be very careful. 

I did not leave Waterton until after nine o’clock 
the next day, for, although I was early at the shop to 
152 


AN ICICLE 


which my bicycle had been sent, it was not quite 
ready for me, and I had to wait. Fortunately no Wil¬ 
loughby came that way. 

But when at last I mounted my wheel I sped away 
rapidly toward the north. I had ordered my bag¬ 
gage expressed to a town fifty miles away, and I hoped 
that if I rode steadily and kept my eyes straight in 
front of me I might safely get out of Cathay, for the 
boundaries of that fateful territory could not extend 
themselves indefinitely. 

Toward the close of the afternoon I saw a female 
in front of me, her back to me, walking, and pushing 
a bicycle. 

“Now,” said I to myself, “she is doing that because 
she likes it, and it is none of my business.” I gazed 
over the fields on the other side of the road, but as I 
passed her I could not help giving a glance at her 
machine. The air was gone from the tire of the hind 
wheel. 

“Ah,” said I to myself, “perhaps her pump is out 
of order, or it may be that she does not know how to 
work it. It is getting late. She may have to go a 
long distance. I could pump it up for her in no time. 
Even if there is a hole in it I could mend it.” But I 
did not stop. I had steeled my heart against any 
more adventures in Cathay. 

But my conscience did not stand by me. I could 
not forget that poor woman plodding along the weary 
road and darkness not far away. I went slower and 
slower, and at last I turned. 

“It would not take me five minutes to help her,” 
I said. “I must be careful, but I need not be a churl.” 
And I rode rapidly back. 

153 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


I came in sight of her just as she was turning into 
the gateway of a pretty house-yard. Doubtless she 
lived there. I turned again and spun away faster 
than I had gone that day. 

For more than a month I journeyed and sojourned 
in a beautiful river valley and among the low foot¬ 
hills of the mountains. The weather was fair, the 
scenery was pleasing, and at last I came to believe 
that I had passed the boundaries of Cathay. I took 
no tablets from my little box. I did not feel that I 
had need of them. 

In the course of time I ceased to travel northward. 
My vacation was not very near its end, but I chose to 
turn my face toward the scene of my coming duties. 
I made a wide circuit, I rode slowly, and I stopped 
often. 

One day I passed through a village, and at the 
outer edge of it a little girl, about four years old, 
tried to cross the road. Tripping, she fell down al¬ 
most in front of me. It was only by a powerful and 
sudden exertion that I prevented myself from going 
over her, and as I wheeled across the road my machine 
came within two feet of her. She lay there yelling 
in the dust. I dismounted, and, picking her up I 
carried her to the other side of the road. There I 
left her to toddle homeward while I went on my way. 
I could not but sigh as I thought that I was again in 
Cathay. 

Two days after this I entered Waterton. There 
was another road, said to be a very pleasant one, 
which lay to the westward, and which would have 
taken me to Walford through a country new to me, 
but I wished to make no further explorations in 
154 


AN ICICLE 


Cathay, and if one journeys back upon a road by 
which he came he will find the scenery very different. 

I spent the night at the hotel, and after breakfast I 
very reluctantly went to call upon the Willoughbys. 
I forced myself to do this, for, considering the cor¬ 
diality they had shown me, it would have required 
more incivility than I possessed to pass through the 
town without paying my respects. But, to my great 
joy, none of the ladies was at home. I hastened from 
the house with a buoyant step, and was soon speeding 
away, and away, and away. 

The road was dry and hard, the sun was bright, but 
there was a fresh breeze in my face, and I rolled along 
at a swift and steady rate. On, on I went, until, be¬ 
fore the sun had reached its highest point, I wheeled 
out of the main road, rolled up a gravel path, and 
dismounted in front of the Holly Sprig Inn. 

I leaned my bicycle against a tree and went indoors. 
The place did not seem so quiet as when I first saw 
it. I had noticed a lady sitting under a tree in front 
of the house. There was a nurse-maid attending a 
child who was playing on the grass. Entering the 
hall, I glanced into the large room which I had called 
the “ office,” and saw a man there writing at a table. 

Presently a maid-servant came into the hall. She 
was not one I had noticed before. I asked if I could 
see Mrs. Chester, and she said she would go and look 
for her. There were chairs in the hall, and I might 
have waited for her there, but I did not. I entered 
the parlor, and was pleased to find it unoccupied. I 
went to the upper end of the room, as far as possible 
from the door. 

In a few minutes I heard a step in the hall. I knew 
155 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


it, and it was strange how soon I had learned to know 
it. She stopped in front of the office, then she went 
on toward the porch, and turning she came into the 
parlor, first looking toward the front of the room and 
then toward the place where I stood. 

The light from a window near me fell directly upon 
her as she approached me, and I could see that there 
was a slight flush on her face, but before she reached 
me it had disappeared. She did not greet me. She 
did not offer me her hand. In fact, from what after¬ 
wards happened, I believe that she did not consider 
me at that moment a fit subject for ordinary greeting. 

She stood up in front of me. She gazed steadfastly 
into my face. Her features wore something of their 
ordinary pleasant expression, but to this there was 
added a certain determination which I had never seen 
there before. She gave her head a little quick shake. 

“Ho, sir !” she said. 

This reception amazed me. I had been greatly 
agitated as I heard her approach, turning over in my 
mind what I should first say to her ; but now I forgot 
everything I had prepared. “Ho what ? ” I exclaimed. 

“ 1 Ho’ means that I will not marry you.” 

I stood speechless. “Of course you are thinking,” 
she continued, “that you have never asked me to 
marry you. But that isn’t at all necessary. As soon 
as I saw you standing there, back two weeks before 
your vacation is over, and when I got a good look at 
your face, I knew exactly what you had come for. I 
was afraid when you left here that you would come 
back for that, so I was not altogether unprepared. I 
spoke promptly so as to spare you and to make it 
easier for me.” 


156 


AN ICICLE 


“Easier! ” I repeated. “What do you mean ? ” 

“Easier, because the sooner you know that I will 
not marry you the better it will be for you and 
for me.” 

Now I could restrain myself no longer. “Why 
can’t I marry you?” I asked, speaking very rapidly 
and, I am afraid, with imprudent energy. “Is it any 
sort of condition or circumstance which prevents? 
Do you think that I am forcing myself upon you at a 
time when I ought not to do it? If so, you have mis¬ 
taken me. Ever since I left here I have thought of 
scarcely anything but you, and I have returned thus 
early simply to tell you that I love you ! I had to do 
that! I could not wait! But as to all else, I can 
wait, and wait, and wait, as long as you please. You 
can tell me to go away and come back at whatever 
time you think it will be right for you to give me an 
answer.” 

“This is the right time,” she said, “and I have 
given you your answer. But, unfortunately, I did 
not prevent you from saying what you came to say. 
So now I will tell you that the conditions and circum¬ 
stances to which you allude have nothing to do with 
the matter. I have a reason for my decision which is 
of so much more importance than any other reason 
that it is the only one which need be considered.” 

“What is that? ” I asked, quickly. 

“It is because I keep a tavern,” she answered. “It 
would be wrong and wicked for you to marry a woman 
who keeps a tavern.” 

Now my face flushed. I could feel it burning. 
“Keep a tavern ! ” I exclaimed. “That is a horrible 
way to put it! But why should you think for an in- 
157 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 

stant that I cared for that? Do you suppose I con¬ 
sider that a dishonorable calling? I would be only 
too glad to adopt it myself and help you keep a tav¬ 
ern, as you call it.” 

“That is the trouble ! ” she exclaimed. “That is the 
greatest trouble. I believe you would. I believe that 
you think that the life would just suit you.” 

“Then sweep away the tavern! ” I exclaimed. 
“Banish it. Leave it. Put it out of all thought or 
consideration. I can wait for you. I can make a 
place and a position for you. I can—” 

“No, you cannot,” she interrupted. “At least not 
for a long time, unless one of your scholars dies and 
leaves you a legacy. It is the future that I am think¬ 
ing about. No matter what you might sweep away, 
and to what position you might attain, it could always 
be said, ‘He married a woman who used to keep a 
tavern.’ Now, every one who is a friend to you, who 
knows what is before you, if you choose to try for it, 
should do everything that can be done to prevent 
such a thing ever being said of you. I am a friend to 
you, and I am going to prevent it.” 

I stood, unable to say one word. Her voice, her 
eyes, even the manner in which she stood before me, 
assured me that she meant everything she said. It 
was almost impossible to believe that such an amiable 
creature could turn into such an icicle. 

“I do not want you to feel worse than you can 
help,” she said, “but it was necessary for me to speak 
as firmly and decidedly as I could, and now it is all 
settled.” 

I knew it was all settled. I knew it as well as if it 
had been settled for years. But, with my eyes still 
158 


AN ICICLE 


ardently fixed on her, I remembered the little flush, 
when she came into the room. 

“Tell me one thing / 7 said I, “and I will go. If it 
were not for what you say about your position in life, 
and all that—if there had not been such a place as 
this inn—then could you — 77 

She moved away from me. “You are as great a 
bear as the other one ! 77 she exclaimed, and turning 
she left the room by a door in the rear. But in the 
next moment she ran back, bolding out her hand. 
“Good-by ! 77 she said. 

I took her band, but beld it not a second. Then 
sbe was gone. I stood looking at the door which she 
bad closed behind her, and then I left the bouse. 
There was no reason why I should stay in that place 
another minute. 

As I was about to mount my bicycle the boy came 
around the corner of the inn. Upon his face was a 
diabolical grin. The thought rushed into my mind 
that he might have been standing beneath the parlor 
window. Instinctively I made a movement toward 
him, but he did not run. I turned my eyes away from 
him and mounted. I could not kill a boy in the 
presence of a nurse-maid. 


159 


CHAPTER XYII 


A FORECASTER OF HUMAN PROBABILITIES 

I was about to turn in the direction of Walford, but 
then into my trouble-tossed mind there came the 
recollection that I had intended, no matter what 
happened, to call on the Larramies before I went 
home. I owed it to them, and at this moment their 
house seemed like a port of refuge. 

The Larramies received me with wide-opened eyes 
and outstretched hands. They were amazed to see 
me before the end of my vacation, for no member of 
that family had ever come back from a vacation 
before it was over j but they showed that they were 
delighted to have me with them, be it sooner or later 
than they had expected, and I had not been in the 
house ten minutes before I received three separate 
invitations to make that house my home until school 
began again. 

The house was even livelier than when I left it. 
There was a married couple visiting there, enthusi¬ 
astic devotees of golf; one of Mr. Walter’s college 
friends was with him; and, to my surprise, Miss Amy 
Willoughby was there again. 

Genevieve received me with the greatest warmth, 
and I could see that her hopes of a gentleman friend 
160 


A FORECASTER 


revived. Little Clara demanded to be kissed as soon 
as she saw me, and I think she now looked upon me 
as a permanent uncle or something of that kind. As 
soon as possible I was escorted by the greater part of 
the family to see the bear. 

Miss Edith had welcomed me as if I had been an 
old friend. It warmed my heart to receive the frank 
and cordial handshake she gave me. She said very 
little, but there was a certain interrogation in her 
eyes which assured me that she had much to ask 
when the time came. As for me, I was in no hurry 
for that time to come. I did not feel like answering 
questions, and with as much animation as I could 
assume I talked to everybody as we went to see the 
bear. 

This animal had grown very fat and supercon- 
tented, but I found that the family were in the con¬ 
dition of Gentleman Waife in Bulwer’s novel, and 
were now wondering what they would do with it. 

“You see,” cried Percy, who was the principal 
showman, “the neighbors are all on pins and needles 
about him. Ever since the McKenna sisters spread 
the story that Orso was in the habit of getting under 
beds, there isn’t a person within five miles of here 
who can go to bed without looking under it to see if 
there is a bear there. There are two houses for sale 
about a mile down the road, and we don’t know any 
reason why people should want to go away except it’s 
the bear. Nearly all the dogs around here are kept 
chained up for fear that Orso will get hold of them, 
and there is a general commotion, I can tell you. At 
first it was great fun, but it is getting a little tire¬ 
some now. We have been talking about shooting 
161 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 

him, and then I shall have his bones, which I am 
going to set up as a skeleton, and it is my opinion 
that you ought to have the skin.” 

Several demurrers now arose, for nobody seemed 
to think that I would want such an ugly skin as 
that. 

“Ugly! ” cried Percy, who was evidently very 
anxious to pursue his study of comparative anatomy. 
“IPs a magnificent skin. Look at that long, heavy 
fur. Why, if you take that skin and have it all 
cleaned, and combed out, and dyed some nice color, 
it will be fit to put into any room.” 

Genevieve was in favor of combing and cleaning, 
oiling and dyeing the hide of the bear without taking 
it off. 

“If you would do that,” she declared, “he would be 
a beautiful bear, and we would give him away. They 
would be glad to have him at Central Park.” 

The Larramies would not listen to my leaving that 
day. There were a good many people in the house, 
but there was room enough for me, and, when we had 
left the bear without solving the problem of his final 
disposition, there were so many things to be done and 
so many things to be said that it was late in the after¬ 
noon before Miss Edith found the opportunity of 
speaking to me for which she had been waiting so long. 

“Well,” said she, as we walked together away from 
the golf links, but not toward the house, “what have 
you to report?” 

“Report? ” I repeated, evasively. 

“Yes, you promised to do that, and I always expect 
people to fulfill their promises to me. You came here 
by the way of the Holly Sprig Inn, didn’t you ? ” 

162 


A FORECASTER 


I assented. “A very roundabout way,” she said. 
“It would have been seven miles nearer if you had 
come by the cross-road. But I suppose you thought 
you must go there first.” 

“That is what I thought,” I answered. 

“Have you been thinking about her all the time you 
have been away ! ” 

“Nearly all the time.” 

“And actually cut off a big slice of your vacation in 
order to see her ? ” 

I replied that this was precisely the state of the case. 

“But, after all, you weren’t successful. You need not 
tell me anything about that—I knew it as soon as I 
saw you this morning. But I will ask you to answer 
one thing : Is the decision final? ” 

I sighed—I could not help it; but she did not even 
smile. “Yes,” I said, “the affair is settled definitely.” 

For a minute or so we walked on silently, and then 
she said: “I do not want you to think I am hard¬ 
hearted, but I must say what is in me. I congratulate 
you, and, at the same time, I am sorry for her.” 

At this amazing speech I turned suddenly toward 
her, and we both stopped. 

“Yes,” said she, standing before me with her clear 
eyes fixed upon my face, “you are to be congratulated. 
I think it is likely she is the most charming young 
woman you are ever likely to meet—and I know a 
great deal more about her than you do, for I have 
known her for a long time, and your acquaintance is 
a very short one—she has qualities you do not know 
anything about; she is lovely ! But for all that it 
would be very wrong for you to marry her, and I am 
glad she had sense enough not to let you do it.” 

163 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“Why do you say that? ” I asked, a little sharply. 

“Of course you don’t like it,” she replied, “but it is 
true. She may be as lovely as you think her—and I 
am sure she is. She may be of good family, finely ed¬ 
ucated, and a great many more things. But all that 
goes for nothing beside the fact that for over five years 
she has been the landlady of a little hotel.” 

“I do not care a snap for that! ” I exclaimed. “I 
like her all the better for it. I—” 

“That makes it worse,” she interrupted, and as she 
spoke I could not but recollect that a similar remark 
had been made to me before. “I have not the slightest 
doubt that you would have been perfectly willing to 
settle down as the landlord of a little hotel. But if 
you had not—even if you had gone on in the course 
which father has marked out for you, and you ought 
to hear him talk about you—you might have become 
famous, rich, nobody knows what, perhaps president 
of a college, but still everybody would have known 
that your wife was the young woman who used to keep 
the Holly Sprig Inn, and asked the people who came 
there if they objected to a back room, and if they 
wanted tea or coffee for their breakfast. Of course 
Mrs. Chester thought too much of you to let you con¬ 
sider any such foolishness.” 

I made no answer to this remark. I thought the 
young woman was taking a great deal upon herself. 

“Of course,” she continued, “it would have been a 
great thing for Mrs. Chester, and I honor her that she 
stood up stiffly and did the thing she ought to do. I 
do not know what she said when she gave you her final 
answer, but whatever it was it was the finest compli¬ 
ment she could have paid you.” 

164 


A FORECASTER 


I smiled grimly. “She likened me to a bear,” I said. 
“Do you call that a compliment? ” 

Edith Larramie looked at me, her eyes sparkling. 
“Tell me one thing,” she said. “When she spoke to 
you in that way weren’t you trying to find out how she 
felt about the matter exclusive of the inn ? ” 

I could not help smiling again as I assented. 

“There!” she exclaimed. “I am beginning to 
have the highest respect for my abilities as a fore¬ 
caster of human probabilities. It was like you to try 
to find out that, and it was like her to snub you. But 
let’s walk on. Would you like me to give you some 
advice ? ” 

“I am afraid your advice is not worth very much,” 
I answered, “but I will hear it.” 

“Well, then,” she said, “I advise you to fall in love 
with somebody else just as soon as you can. That is 
the best way to get this affair out of your mind, and 
until you do that you won’t be worth anything.” 

I felt that I now knew this girl so well that I could 
say anything to her. “Very well, then,” said I; 
“suppose I fall in love with you?” 

“That isn’t a very nice speech,” she said. “There 
is a little bit of spitefulness in it. But it doesn’t 
mean anything, anyway. I am out of the competi¬ 
tion, and that is the reason I can speak to you so 
freely. Moreover, that is the reason I know so much 
about the matter. I am not biassed. But you need 
have no trouble—there’s Amy.” 

“Don’t say Amy to me, I beg of you!” I ex¬ 
claimed. 

“Why not?” she persisted. “She is very pretty. 
She is as good as she can be. She is rich. And if she 
165 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


were your wife you would want her to talk more than 
she does, you would be so glad to listen to her. I 
might say more about Amy, but I won’t.” 

“ Would it be very impolite,” said I, “if I whistled? ” 

“I don’t know,” she said, “but you needn’t do it. 
I will consider it done. Now I will speak of Bertha 
Putney. I was bound to mention Amy first, because 
she is my dear friend, but Miss Putney is a grand girl. 
And I do not mind telling you that she takes a great 
interest in you.” 

“How do you know that? ” I asked. 

“I have seen her since you were here—she lunched 
with us. As soon as she heard your name mentioned 
—and that was bound to happen, for this family has 
been talking about you ever since they first knew you 
—she began to ask questions. Of course the bear 
came up, and she wanted to know every blessed thing 
that happened. But when she found out that you got 
the bear at the Holly Sprig her manner changed, and 
she talked no more about you at the table. 

“But in the afternoon she had a great deal to say to 
me. I did not know exactly what she was driving at, 
and I may have told her too much. We said a great 
many things,—some of which I remember and some I 
do not, — but I am sure that I never knew a woman to 
take more interest in a man than she takes in you. 
So it is my opinion that if you would stop at the Put- 
neys’ on your way home you might do a great deal to 
help you get rid of the trouble you are now in. It 
makes me feel something like a spy in a camp to talk 
this way, but I told you I was your friend, and I am 
going to be one. Spies are all right when they are 
loyal to their own side.” 


166 


A FORECASTER 


I was very glad to have such a girl on my side, but 
this did not seem to be a very good time to talk about 
the advantages of a call upon Miss Putney. 

In spite of all the entreaties of the Larramie fam¬ 
ily, I persisted in my intention of going on to Wal- 
ford the next morning, and, in reply to their assur¬ 
ances that I would find it dreadfully dull in that little 
village during the rest of my vacation, I told them 
that I should be very much occupied and should have 
no time to be dull. I was going seriously to work to 
prepare myself for my profession. For a year or two 
I had been deferring this important matter, waiting 
until I had laid by enough money to enable me to 
give up school-teaching and to apply myself entirely 
to the studies which would be necessary. All this 
would give me enough to do, and vacation was the 
time in which I ought to do it. The distractions of 
the school session were very much in the way of a 
proper contemplation of my own affairs. 

“That sounds very well,” said Miss Edith, when 
there was no one by, “but if you cannot get the Holly 
Sprig Inn out of your mind, I do not believe you will 
do very much ‘ proper contemplation.’ Take my ad¬ 
vice and stop at the Putneys’. It can do you no 
harm, and it might help to free your mind of distrac¬ 
tions a great deal worse than those of the school.” 

“By filling it with other distractions, I suppose you 
mean,” I answered. “A fickle-minded person you 
must think me. But it pleases me so much to have 
you take an interest in me that I do not resent any 
of your advice.” 

She laughed. “I like to give advice,” she said, 
“but I must admit that I sometimes think better of a 
167 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


person if he does not take it. But I will say—and 
this is all the advice I am going to give you at pres¬ 
ent—that if you want to be successful in making love, 
you must change your methods. You cannot expect 
to step up in front of a girl and stop her short as if 
she were a runaway horse. A horse doesn’t like that 
sort of thing, and a girl doesn’t like it. You must take 
more time about it. A runaway girl doesn’t hurt any¬ 
body, and, if you are active enough, you can jump in 
behind and take the reins and stop her gradually 
without hurting her feelings, and then, most likely, 
you can drive her for all the rest of your life.” 

“You ought to have that speech engraved in uncial 
characters on a slab of stone,” said I. “Any museum 
would be glad to have it.” 

I had two reasons besides the one I gave for wish¬ 
ing to leave this hospitable house. In the first place, 
Edith Larramie troubled me. I did not like to have 
any one know so much about my mental interior— 
or to think she knew so much. I did not like to feel 
that I was being managed. I had a strong belief that 
if anybody jumped into a vehicle she was pulling he 
would find that she was doing her own driving and 
would allow no interferences. I liked her very much, 
but I was sure that away from her I would feel freer 
in mind. 

The other reason for my leaving was Amy Wil¬ 
loughby. During my little visit to her house my 
acquaintance with her had grown with great rapidity. 
Now I seemed to know her very well, and the more I 
knew her the better I liked her. It may be vanity, 
but I think she wanted me to like her, and one rea¬ 
son for believing this was the fact that when she was 
168 


A FORECASTER 


with me—and I saw a great deal of her during the 
afternoon and evening I spent with the Larramies — 
she did not talk so much, and when she did speak she 
invariably said something I wanted to hear. 

Remembering the remarks which had been made 
about her by her friend Edith, I could not but admit 
that she was a very fine girl, combining a great many 
attractive qualities, but I rebelled against every con¬ 
viction I had in regard to her. I did not want to 
think about her admirable qualities. I did not want 
to believe that in time they would impress me more 
forcibly than they did now. I did not want people 
to imagine that I would come to be so impressed. If 
I stayed there I might almost look upon her in the 
light of a duty. 

The family farewell the next morning was a 
tumultuous one. Invitations to ride up again dur¬ 
ing my vacation, to come and spend Saturdays and 
Sundays, were intermingled with earnest injunctions 
from Genevieve in regard to a correspondence which 
she wished to open with me for the benefit of her 
mind, and declarations from Percy that he would let 
me know all about the bear as soon as it was decided 
what would be the best thing to happen to him, and 
entreaties from little Clara that I would not go away 
without kissing her good-by. 

But amid the confusion Miss Edith found a chance 
to say a final word to me. “Don’t you try,” she said, 
as I was about to mount my bicycle, “to keep those 
holly sprigs in your brain until Christmas. They are 
awfully stickery, they will not last, and, besides, there 
will not be any Christmas.” 

“And how about New Year’s Day?” I asked. 

169 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“That is the way to talk / 7 said she. “Keep your 
mind on that and you will be all right / 7 

As I rode along I could not forget that it would be 
necessary for me to pass the inn. I had made in¬ 
quiries, but there were no byways which would serve 
my purpose. There was nothing for me to do but 
keep on, and on I kept. I should pass so noiselessly 
and so swiftly that I did not believe any one would 
notice me, unless, indeed, it should be the boy. I 
earnestly hoped that I should not see the boy. 

Whether or not I was seen from the inn as I passed 
it I do not know. In fact, I did not know when I 
passed it. Ko shout of immature diabolism caught 
my ear, no scent of lemon came into my nostrils, and 
I saw nothing but the line of road directly in front 
of me. 


170 


CHAPTER XVIII 

REPENTANCE AVAILS NOT 

When I was positively certain that I had left the 
little inn far behind me, I slackened my speed, and, 
perceiving a spreading tree by the roadside, I dis¬ 
mounted and sat down in the shade. It was a hot 
day, and unconsciously I had been working very 
hard. Several persons on wheels passed along the 
road, and every time I saw one approaching I was 
afraid that it might be somebody I knew, who might 
stop and sit by me in the shade. I was now near 
enough to Walford to meet with people from that 
neighborhood, and I did not want to meet with any 
one just now. I had a great many things to think 
about and just then I was busy trying to make up my 
mind whether or not it would be well for me to stop 
at the Putneys\ 

If I should pass without stopping, some one in the 
lodge would probably see me, and the family would 
know of my discourtesy, but, although it would have 
been a very simple thing to do, and a very proper 
thing, I did not feel sure that I wanted to stop. If 
Edith Larramie had never said anything about it, I 
think I would surely have made a morning call upon 
the Putneys. 


171 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


After I had cooled off a little I rose to remount$ I 
had not decided anything, but it was of no use to sit 
there any longer. Glancing along the road toward 
Walford, I saw in the distance some one approaching 
on a wheel. Involuntarily I stood still and watched 
the oncoming cyclist, who I saw was a woman. She 
moved steadily and rapidly on the other side of the 
road. Very soon I recognized her. It was Miss 
Putney. 

As she came nearer and nearer I was greatly im¬ 
pressed with her appearance. Her costume was as 
suitable and becoming for the occasion as if it had 
been an evening dress for a ball, and she wheeled 
better than any woman cyclist I ever saw. Her head 
was erect, her eyes straight before her, and her 
motion was rhythm of action. 

With my hand on my wheel I moved a few steps 
toward the middle of the road. I was about to take 
off my cap when she turned her eyes upon me. She 
even moved her head a little so as to gaze upon me a 
few seconds longer. Her face was quiet and serene, 
her eyes were large, clear, and observant. In them 
was not one gleam of recognition. Turning them 
again upon the road in front of her, she sped on and 
away. 

For some minutes I stood looking after her, utterly 
astonished. I do not think in all my life I had ever 
been cut like that. What did it mean? Could she 
care enough about me to resent my stopping at the 
Holly Sprig? Was it possible that she could have 
known what had been likely to happen there, and 
what had happened there? All this was very im¬ 
probable, but in Cathay people seemed to know a 
172 


REPENTANCE AVAILS NOT 


great many things. Anyway, she had solved my 
problem for me. I need give no further thought to a 
stop at her father’s mansion. 

I mounted and rode on, but not rapidly. I was 
very much moved. My soul grew warm as I thought 
of the steady gaze of the eyes which that girl had 
fixed upon me. For a mile or so I moved steadily 
and quietly in a mood of incensed dignity. I pressed 
the pedals with a hard and cruel tread. I did not 
understand. I could scarcely believe. 

Soon, however, I began to move a little faster. 
Somehow or other I became conscious that there was 
a bicycle at some distance behind me. I pushed on 
a little faster. I did not wish to be overtaken by 
anybody. Now I was sure there was a wheel behind 
me. I could not hear it, but I knew it was there. 

Presently I became certain that my instincts had 
not deceived me, for I heard the quick sound of a 
bicycle bell. This was odd, for surely no one would 
ring for me to get out of the way. Then there was 
another tinkle, a little nearer. 

Now I sped faster and faster. I heard the bell vio¬ 
lently ringing. Then I thought, but I am not sure, 
that I heard a voice. I struck out with the thrust of 
a steam engine, and the earth slipped backward 
beneath me like the water of a mill-race. I passed 
wagons as if they had been puffs of smoke, and people 
on wheels as though they were flying cinders. 

In some ten minutes I slackened speed and looked 
back. For a long distance behind me not a bicycle 
was in sight. I now pursued my homeward way with 
a warm body and a lacerated heart. I hated this 
region which I had called Cathay. Its inhabitants 
173 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


were not barbarians, but I was suffering from their 
barbarities. I had come among them clean, whole, 
with an upright bearing. I was going away torn, 
bloody, and downcast. 

If the last words of the lady of the Holly Sprig meant 
the sweet thing I thought they meant, then did they 
make the words which preceded them all the more 
bitter. The more friendly and honest the counsels of 
Edith Larramie had grown, the deeper they had cut 
into my heart. Even the more than regard with which 
my soul prompted me to look back to Amy Willoughby 
was a pain to me. My judgment would enrage me 
if it should try to compel me to feel as I did not want 
to feel. 

But none of these wounds would have so pained and 
disturbed me had it not been for the merciless gaze 
which that dark-eyed girl had fixed upon me as she 
passed me standing in the road. And if she had gone 
too far and had done more than her own nature could 
endure, and if it were she who had been pursuing me, 
then the wound was more cruel and the smart deeper. 
If she believed me a man who would stop at the ring¬ 
ing of her bell, then was I ashamed of myself for having 
given her that impression. 


174 


CHAPTER XIX 


BEAUTY, PUBITY, AND PEACE 

I now proposed to wheel my way in one long stretch 
to Walford. I took no interest in rest or in refresh¬ 
ment. Simply to feel that I had done with this cycle 
of Cathay would be to me rest, refreshment, and, per¬ 
haps, the beginning of peace. 

The sun was high in the heavens, and its rays were 
hot, but still I kept steadily on until I saw a female 
figure by the roadside waving a handkerchief. I had 
not yet reached her, but she had stopped, was looking 
at me, and was waving energetically. I could not be 
mistaken. I turned and wheeled up in front of her. 
It was Mrs. Burton, the mother of the young lady who 
had injured her ankle on the day when I set out for 
my journey through Cathay. 

“I am so glad to see you,” she said, as she shook 
hands with me. “I knew you as soon as my eyes first 
fell upon you. You know I have often seen you on 
the road before we became acquainted with you. We 
have frequently talked about you since you were here, 
and we did not expect you would be coming back so 
soon. Mr. Burton has been hoping that he would 
have a chance to know you better. He is very fond 
of schoolmasters. He was an intimate friend of 
175 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


Godfrey Chester, who had the school at Walford some 
years before you came,—when the boys and girls used 
to go to school together,—and of the man who came 
afterwards. He was a little too elderly, perhaps, but 
Mr. Burton liked him too, and now he hopes that he 
is going to know you. But excuse me for keeping you 
standing so long in the road. You must come in. 
We shall have dinner in ten minutes. I was just 
coming home from a neighbor’s when I caught sight 
of you.” 

I declined with earnestness. Mr. Burton might be 
a very agreeable man, but I wanted to make no new 
acquaintances then. I must keep on to Walford. 

But the good lady would listen to no refusals of her 
hospitality. I was just in time. I must need a mid¬ 
day rest and something to eat. She was very sorry 
that Mr. Burton was not at home. He nearly always 
was at home, but to-day he had gone to Waterton. 
But if I would be contented to take dinner with her 
daughter and herself, they would be delighted to have 
me do so. She made a motion to open the gate for 
me, but I opened it for her, and we both went in. 
The daughter met us at the top of the garden walk. 
She came toward me as a cool summer breeze comes 
upon a hot and dusty world. There was no flush upon 
her face, but her eyes and lips told me that she was 
glad to see me before she spoke a word or placed her 
soft, white hand in mine. At the first touch of that 
hand I felt glad that Mrs. Burton had stopped me in 
the road. Here was peace. 

That dinner was the most soothing meal of which I 
had ever partaken. I did the carving, my compan¬ 
ions did the questioning, and nearly all the conversa- 
176 


BEAUTY, PURITY, AND PEACE 


tion was about myself. Ordinarily I would not have 
liked this, but every word which was said by these 
two fair ladies—for the sweetness of the mother was 
merely more seasoned than that of the daughter—was 
so filled with friendly interest that it gratified me to 
make my answers. 

They seemed to have heard a great deal about me 
during my wanderings through Cathay. They knew, 
of course, that I had stopped with the Putneys, for I 
had told them that, but they had also heard that I had 
spent a night at the Holly Sprig, and had afterwards 
stayed with the Larramies. But of anything which 
had happened which in the slightest degree had jarred 
upon my feelings they did not appear to have heard 
the slightest mention. 

I might have supposed that only good and happy 
news thought it worth while to stop at that abode of 
peace. As I looked upon the serene and tender coun¬ 
tenance of Mrs. Burton I wondered how a cloud ris¬ 
ing from want of sympathy with early peas ever could 
have settled over this little family circle. But it was 
the man who had caused the cloud. I knew it. It is 
so often the man. 

When we had finished dinner and had gone out to 
sit in the cool shadows of the piazza, I let my gaze rest 
as often as I might upon the fair face of that young 
girl. Several times her eyes met mine, but their lids 
never drooped, their tender light did not brighten. 
I felt that she was so truly glad to see me that her 
pleasure in the meeting was not affected one way or 
the other by the slight incident of my looking at her. 

If ever a countenance told of innocence, purity, and 
truth, her countenance told of them. I believe that 
177 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 

if she had thought it pleased me to look at her, it 
would have pleased her to know that it gave me 
pleasure. 

As I talked with her and looked at her, and as I 
looked at her mother and talked with her, it was im¬ 
pressed upon me that if there is one thing in this 
world which is better than all else, it is peace, that 
peace which comprises so many forms of happiness 
and deep content. That the thoughts which came to 
me could come to a heart so lacerated, so torn, so full 
of pain as mine had been that morning, seemed won¬ 
derful, and yet they came. 

Once or twice I tried to banish these thoughts. It 
seemed disrespectful to myself to entertain them so 
soon after other thoughts which I now wished to ban¬ 
ish utterly. I am not a hero of romance. I am only 
a plain human being, and such is the constitution of 
my nature that the more troubled and disturbed is 
my soul, the more welcome is purity, truth, and 
peace. 

But, after all, my feelings were not quite natural, 
and the change in them was too sudden. It was the 
consequence of too violent a reaction, but, such as it 
was, it was complete. I would not be hasty. I would 
not be deficient in self-respect. But if at that mo¬ 
ment I had known that this was the time to declare 
what I wished to have, I would unhesitatingly have 
asked for beauty, purity, and peace. 

A maid came out upon the piazza who wanted 
something. Mrs. Burton half rose, but her daughter 
forestalled her. “I will go,” said she. “Excuse me 
one minute.” 

If my face expressed the sentiment, “Oh, that the 
178 


BEAUTY, PURITY, AND PEACE 


mother had gone ! 77 I did not intend that it should 
do so. Mrs. Burton then began to talk about her 
daughter. 

“She is like her father , 77 she said, “in so many ways. 
For one thing, she is very fond of schoolmasters. I 
do not know exactly why this should be, but her teach¬ 
ers always seem to be her friends. In fact, she is to 
marry a schoolmaster—that is, an assistant professor 
at Yale. He is in Europe now, but we expect him 
back early in the fall . 77 

A short time after this, when the daughter had re¬ 
turned and I rose to go, the young girl put her soft, 
white hand into mine exactly as she had done when I 
arrived, and the light in her eyes showed me, just as 
it had showed me before, the pleasure she had taken 
in my visit. But the mother 7 s farewell was different 
from her greeting. I could see in her kind air a cer¬ 
tain considerate sympathy which was not there before. 
She had been very prompt to tell me of her daughters 
engagement. 

That young angel of peace and truth would not 
have deemed it necessary to say a word about the mat¬ 
ter, even to a young man who was a schoolmaster, 
and between whom and her family a mutual interest 
was rapidly growing. But with the mother it was 
otherwise. She had seen the shadows pass away from 
my countenance as I sat and talked upon that cool 
piazza, my eyes bent upon her daughter. Mothers 
know. 


179 


CHAPTER XX 


BACK FROM CATHAY 

The next morning, being again settled in my rooms 
in Walford, I went to call upon the doctor and bis 
daughter. The doctor was not at home, but his 
daughter was glad to see me. 

“And how do you like your cycle of Cathay?” she 
asked. 

“I do not like it at all,” I answered. “It has taken 
me upon a dreary round. I am going to change it for 
another as soon as I have an opportunity.” 

“Then it has not been a wheel of fortune to you? ” 
she remarked. “And as for that country which you 
figuratively called Cathay, did you find that pleas¬ 
ant? ” 

“In some ways, yes, but in others not. You see, I 
came back before my vacation was over, and I do not 
care to go there any more.” 

She now wanted me to tell her where I had really 
been and what had happened to me, and I gave her 
a sketch of my adventures. Of course I could not 
enter deeply into particulars, for that would make too 
long a story, but I told her where I had stopped, and 
my accounts of the bear and the horse were deeply 
interesting. 

“It seems to me,” she said, when I had finished, 
180 


BACK FROM CATHAY 


“that if things had been a little different, you might 
have had an extremely pleasant tour. For instance, 
if Mr. Godfrey Chester had been living, I think you 
would have liked him very much, and it is probable 
that you would have been glad to stay at his inn for 
several days. It is a beautiful country thereabout.” 

“Did you know him?” I asked. 

“Oh, yes,” she said$ “he was my teacher during 
part of my school-days here. And then there is Mr. 
Burton j father is very fond of him. He is a man of 
great intelligence. It was unfortunate that you did 
not see more of him.” 

“Perhaps you know Mr. Putney?” I said. 

“Ho,” she answered. “I have heard a great deal 
about him. He seems to be a stiff sort of a man. 
But as to Mr. Larramie, everybody likes him. He is 
a great favorite throughout the county, and his son 
Walter is a rising young man. I am glad you made 
the acquaintance of the Larramies.” 

“So am I,” I said, “very glad indeed. And, by 
the way, do you know a young man named Wil¬ 
loughby ? I never heard his first name, but he lives 
at Waterton.” 

“Oh, the Willoughbys of Waterton,” she said. “I 
have heard a great deal about them. Father used to 
know the old gentleman. He was a great collector 
of rare books. But he is dead now. If you had met 
him you would have found him a man of your own 
tastes.” ; 

When I was going away she stopped me for a mo¬ 
ment. “I forgot to ask you,” she said j “did you 
take any of those capsules I gave you when you were 
starting off on your cycle ? ” 

181 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


“Yes,” said I, “I took some of them.” But I could 
not well explain the capricious way in which I had 
endeavored to guard against the germs of malaria, 
and to call my own attention to the threatening 
germs of erratic fancy. 

“Then you do not think they did you any good? ” 
she said. 

“I am not sure,” I replied. “I cannot say any¬ 
thing about that. But of one thing I am certain, 
and that is, that if any germs of any kind entered 
my system, it is perfectly free from them now.” 

“I am glad to hear that,” she said. 

It was about a week after this that I received a 
letter from Percy Larramie. “I thought you would 
like to know about the bear,” he wrote. “Somebody 
must have forgotten to feed him, and he broke his 
chain and got away. He went straight over to the 
Holly Sprig Inn, and I expect he did that because 
the inn was the last place he had seen his master. I 
did not know bears cared so much for masters. He 
didn’t stay long at the inn, but he stayed long enough 
to bite a boy. Then he went into the woods. 

“As soon as we heard of it we all set off on a bear- 
hunt. It was jolly fun, although I did not so much 
as catch a sight of him. Father shot him at a three- 
hundred-foot range. It was a Winchester rifle with 
a thirty-two cartridge. It was a beautiful shot, Wal¬ 
ter said, and I wish I had made it. 

“We took his skin off and tore it only in two or 
three places, which can be mended. Would you like 
to have the skin, and do you care particularly about 
the head? If you don’t, I would like to have it, be¬ 
cause without it the skeleton will not be perfect.” 

182 


BACK FROM CATHAY 


I wrote to Percy that I did not desire so much as a 
single hair of the beast. I did not tell him so, but I 
despised the bears of Cathay. 

It was just before the Christmas holidays when I 
finally made up my mind that of all the women in the 
world the doctor’s daughter was the one for me, and 
when I told her so she did not try to conceal that this 
was also her own opinion. I had seen the most charm¬ 
ing qualities in other women, and my somewhat rapid 
and enthusiastic study of them had so familiarized me 
with them that I was enabled readily to perceive their 
existence in others. I found them all in the doctor’s 
daughter. 

Her father was very well pleased when he heard of 
our compact. It was plain that he had been waiting 
to hear of it. When he furthermore heard that I had 
decided to abandon all thought of the law, and to 
study medicine instead, his satisfaction was complete. 
He arranged everything with affectionate prudence. 
I should read with him, beginning immediately, even 
before I gave up my school. I should attend the nec¬ 
essary medical courses, and we need be in no hurry to 
marry. We were both young, and when I was ready 
to become his assistant it would be time enough for 
him to give me his daughter. 

We were sitting together in the doctor’s library 
and had been looking over some of the papers of the 
Walford Literary Society, of which we were both offi¬ 
cers, when I said, looking at her signature : “By the 
way, I wish you would tell me one thing. What does 
the initial ( E.’ stand for in your name 1 I never knew 
any one to use it.” 

“No,” she said 5 “I do not like it. It was given to 
183 


A BICYCLE OF CATHAY 


me by my mother’s sister, who was a romantic young 
lady. It is Europa. And I only hope,” she added, 
quickly, “ that you may have fifty years of it.” 

Three years of the fifty have now passed, and each 
one of the young women I met in Cathay has married. 
The first one to go off was Edith Larramie. She mar¬ 
ried the college friend of her brother who was at the 
house when I visited them. When I met her in Wal- 
ford shortly after I heard of her engagement, she took 
me aside in her old way and told me she wanted me 
always to look upon her as my friend, no matter how 
circumstances might change with her or me. 

“You do not know how much of a friend I was to 
you,” she said, “and it is not at all necessary you 
should know. But I will say that when I saw you 
getting into such a dreadful snarl in our part of the 
country, I determined, if there were no other way to 
save you, I would marry you myself! But I did not 
do it, and you ought to be very glad of it, for you 
would have found that a little of me, now and then, 
would be a great deal more to your taste than to have 
me always.” 

Mrs. Chester married the man who had courted her 
before she fell in love with her schoolmaster. It ap¬ 
peared that the fact of her having been the landlady 
of the Holly Sprig made no difference in his case. 
He was too rich to have any prospects which might 
be interfered with. 

Amy Willoughby married Walter Larramie. That 
was a thing which might well have been expected. I 
was very glad to hear it, for I shall never fail to be 
interested in the Larramies. 


184 


BACK FROM CATHAY 


About a year ago there was a grand wedding at the 
Putney city mansion. The daughter of the family 
was married to an Italian gentleman with a title. I 
read of the affair in the newspapers, and having heard, 
in addition, a great many details of the match from 
the gossips of Walford, I supposed myself to be fully 
informed in regard to this grand alliance, and was 
therefore very much surprised to receive, personally, 
an announcement of the marriage upon a very large 
and stiff card, on which were given, in full, the vari¬ 
ous titles and dignities of the noble bridegroom. I 
did not believe Mr. Putney had sent me this card, nor 
that his wife had done so ; certainly the Count did not 
send it. But no matter how it came to me, I was very 
sure I owed it to the determination, on the part of 
some one, that by no mischance should I fail to know 
exactly what had happened. I heard recently that 
the noble lady and her husband expect to spend the 
summer at her father’s country house, and some peo¬ 
ple believe that they intend to make it their perma¬ 
nent home. 

The doctor strongly advises that Europa and I 
should go before long and settle in the Cathay region. 
He thinks that it will be a most excellent field for me 
to begin my labors in, and he knows many families 
there who would doubtless give me their practice. 


185 



A MEMORIAL SKETCH 
OF MR. STOCKTON 



A MEMORIAL SKETCH 
OF MR. STOCKTON 


In this volume, which closes the Shenandoah Edi¬ 
tion of the works of Frank R. Stockton, it seems fit¬ 
ting to give some account of the man whose bright 
spirit illumined them all. Something also may be 
told relating to the stories themselves—of the circum¬ 
stances in which they were written, of the influences 
that determined their direction, and the history of 
their evolution. It also seems appropriate that this 
should be done by the one who knew him best; the 
one who lived with him through a long and beautiful 
life ; the one who walked hand in hand with him along 
the whole of a wonderful road of ever-changing scenes : 
now through forests peopled with fairies and dryads, 
griffins and wizards; now skirting the edges of an 
ocean with its strange monsters and remarkable ship¬ 
wrecks ; now on the beaten track of European tourists, 
sharing their novel adventures, and amused by their 
mistakes ; now resting in lovely gardens imbued with 
human interest ; now helping the young to make happy 
homes for themselves, now sympathizing with the old 
as they look longingly toward a heavenly home ; and 
oftenest, perhaps, watching eagerly the doings of 
young men and maidens trying to work out the prob¬ 
lems of their lives. All this, and much more, crowded 
the busy years until the Angel of Death stood in the 
path, and the journey was ended. 

189 


A MEMORIAL SKETCH 


Francis Richard Stockton, born in Philadelphia in 
1834, was, on his father’s side, of purely English an¬ 
cestry 5 on his mother’s side there was a mixture of 
English, French, and Irish. When he began to write 
stories these three nationalities were combined in 
them: the peculiar kind of inventiveness of the 
French ; the point of view and the humor that we 
find in the old English humorists 5 and the capacity 
of the Irish for comical situations. 

Soon after arriving in this country the eldest son of ' 
the first American Stockton settled in Princeton, New 
Jersey, and founded that branch of the family 5 while 
the father, with the other sons, settled in Burlington 
County, in the same State, and founded the Burling¬ 
ton branch of the family, from which Frank R. Stock- 
ton was descended. His was a family with literary 
proclivities. His father was widely known for his 
religious writings, mostly of a polemical character, 
which had a powerful influence in the denomination 
to which he belonged. His half-brother (much older 
than Frank) was a preacher of great eloquence, famous 
a generation ago as a pulpit orator. 

When Frank and his brother John, two years 
younger, came to the age to begin life for themselves, 
they both showed such decided artistic genius that it 
was thought best to start them in that direction, and 
to have them taught engraving, an art then held in 
high esteem. Frank chose wood and John steel en¬ 
graving. Both did good work, but their hearts were 
not in it, and as soon as opportunity offered they 
abandoned engraving. John went into journalism, 
became editorially connected with prominent news¬ 
papers, and had won a foremost place in his chosen 
190 


OF MR. STOCKTON 


profession, when he was cut off by death at a com¬ 
paratively early age. 

Frank chose literature. He had, while in the en¬ 
graving business, written a number of fairy tales, 
some of which had been published in juvenile maga¬ 
zines $ also a few short stories, and quite an ambitious 
long story, which was published in a prominent maga¬ 
zine. He was then sufficiently well known as a writer 
to obtain without difficulty a place on the staff of 
“Hearth and Home,” a weekly Hew York paper, 
owned by Orange Judd and conducted by Edward 
Eggleston. Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge had charge of 
the juvenile department, and Frank went on the 
paper as her assistant. Hot long after “Scribner’s 
Monthly ” was started by Charles Scribner (the elder) 
in conjunction with Roswell Smith and J. G. Holland. 
Later Mr. Smith and his associates formed the Cen¬ 
tury Co.; and with this company Mr. Stockton was 
connected for many years: first on the “Century 
Magazine,” which succeeded “Scribner’s Monthly,” 
and afterwards on “St. Hicholas,” as assistant to Mrs. 
Mary Mapes Dodge, and still later, when he decided 
to give up editorial work, as a constant contributor. 
After a few years he resigned his position in the com¬ 
pany with which he had been so pleasantly associated 
in order to devote himself exclusively to the writing 
of stories. By this time he had written and published 
enough to feel justified in taking what seemed to his 
friends a bold, and even rash, step, because so few 
writers then lived solely by the pen. He was never 
very strong physically; he felt himself unable to do 
his editorial work and at the same time write out the 
fancies and stories with which his mind was full. 

191 


A MEMORIAL SKETCH 

This venture proved to be the wisest thing for him ; 
and from that time his life was, in great part, in his 
books ; and he gave to the world the novels and stories 
which bear his name. 

Having been a great lover of fairy lore when a 
child, he naturally fell into this form of story-writing 
as soon as he was old enough to put a story together. 
He invented a goodly number, and among them the 
“Ting-a-Ling” stories, which were read aloud in a 
boys’ literary circle, and, meeting their hearty ap¬ 
proval, were subsequently published in the u River¬ 
side Magazine,” a handsome and popular juvenile of 
that period ; and, much later, were issued by Hurd & 
Houghton in a very pretty volume. In regard to 
these he wrote long afterwards as follows : 

“I was very young when I determined to write 
some fairy tales because my mind was full of them. I 
set to work and in course of time produced several 
which were printed. These were constructed accord¬ 
ing to my own ideas. I caused the fanciful creatures 
who inhabited the world of fairy-land to act, as far as 
possible for them to do so, as if they were inhabitants 
of the real world. I did not dispense with monsters 
and enchanters, or talking beasts and birds, but I 
obliged these creatures to infuse into their extraordi¬ 
nary actions a certain leaven of common sense.” 

It was about this time, while very young, that he 
and his brother became ambitious to write stories, 
poems, and essays for the world at large. They sent 
their effusions to various periodicals, with the result 
common to ambitious youths: all were returned. 
They decided at last that editors did not know a good 
thing when they saw it, and hit upon a brilliant 
192 


OF MR. STOCKTON 


scheme to prove their own judgment. One of them 
selected an extract from “Paradise Regained” (as 
being not so well known as “Paradise Lost”), and 
sent it to an editor, with the boy’s own name ap¬ 
pended, expecting to have it returned with some of 
the usual disparaging remarks, which they would 
greatly enjoy. But they were disappointed. The 
editor printed it in his paper, thereby proving that 
he did know a good thing, if he did not know his 
Milton. Mr. Stockton was fond of telling this story, 
and it may have given rise to a report, extensively 
circulated, that he tried to gain admittance to periodi¬ 
cals for many years before he succeeded. This is not 
true. Some rebuffs he had, of course,—some with 
things which afterwards proved great successes,—but 
not as great a number as falls to the lot of most 
beginners. 

The “Ting-a-Ling” tales proved so popular that 
Mr. Stockton followed them at intervals with long 
and short stories for the young, which appeared in 
various juvenile publications, and were afterwards 
published in book form—“Roundabout Rambles,” 
“Tales Out of School,” “A Jolly Fellowship,” “Per¬ 
sonally Conducted,” “The Story of Viteau,” “The 
Floating Prince,” and others. Some years later, after 
he had begun to write for older readers, he wrote a 
series of stories for “St. Nicholas,” ostensibly for chil¬ 
dren, but really intended for adults. Children liked 
the stories, but the deeper meaning underlying them 
all was beyond the grasp of a child’s mind. These 
stories Mr. Stockton took very great pleasure in 
writing, and always regarded them as some of his best 
work, and was gratified when his critics wrote of them 
193 


A MEMORIAL SKETCH 


in that way. They have become famous, and have 
been translated into several languages, notably “Old 
Pipes and the Dryad,” “The Bee-Man of Orne,” 
“Prince Hassak’s March,” and “The Griffin and the 
Minor Canon.” This last story was suggested by 
Chester Cathedral, and he wrote it in that venerable 
city. The several tales were eventually collected into 
a volume under the title, “The Bee-Man of Orne and 
Other Stories,” which is included in this complete 
edition of his novels and stories. 

Very few of Mr. Stockton’s stories—I may say none, 
except those for juveniles—can now be found in peri¬ 
odical literature that have not been included in this 
edition. His short stories have been, from time to 
time, selected by himself and collected into volumes 
under different titles. The last collection of these, 
the stories that had been appearing in various periodi¬ 
cals, he arranged with a connecting thread of narra¬ 
tive as told by different persons in a garden suggested 
by the garden in Claymont. This he called “John 
Gay ther’s Garden ” 5 and he had nearly finished the 
interludes between the stories when he was called 
away. The book was published a few months later. 
He left the manuscript of a completed novel, “The 
Captain’s Toll-Gate,” published after his death. 
“Kate Bonnet, the Romance of a Pirate’s Daughter,” 
was issued a few months before his death. 

Mr. Stockton considered his career as an editor of 
great advantage to him as an author. In an auto¬ 
biographical paper he writes : “Long-continued read¬ 
ing of manuscripts submitted for publication which 
are almost good enough to use, and yet not quite up 
to the standard of the magazine, cannot but be of 
194 


OF MR. STOCKTON 


great service to any one who proposes a literary career. 
Bad work shows us what we ought to avoid, but most 
of us know, or think we know, what that is. Fine 
literary work we get outside the editorial room. But 
the great mass of literary material which is almost 
good enough to print is seen only by the editorial 
reader, and its lesson is lost upon him in a great de¬ 
gree unless he is, or intends to be, a literary worker.” 

The first house in which we set up our own house¬ 
hold goods stood in Nutley, New Jersey. We had 
with us an elderly attachee of the Stockton family as 
maid-of-all-work; and to relieve her of some of her 
duties I went into New York and procured from an 
orphans’ home a girl whom Mr. Stockton described 
as “a middle-sized orphan.” She was about fourteen 
years old, and proved to be a very peculiar individual, 
with strong characteristics which so appealed to Mr. 
Stockton’s sense of humor that he liked to talk with 
her and draw out her opinions of things in general, 
and especially of the books she had read. Her spare 
time was devoted to reading books, mostly of the 
blood-curdling variety; and she read them to herself 
aloud in the kitchen, in a very disjointed fashion, 
which was at first amusing and then irritating. We 
never knew her real name, nor did the people at the 
orphanage. She had three or four very romantic ones 
she had borrowed from novels while she was with us, 
for she was very sentimental. 

Mr. Stockton bestowed upon her the name of Po¬ 
mona, which is now a household word in myriads of 
homes. This extraordinary girl, and some household 
experiences, induced Mr. Stockton to write a paper 
for “Scribner’s Monthly” which he called “Rudder 
195 


A MEMORIAL SKETCH 


Grange.” This one paper was all he intended to 
write; but it attracted immediate attention, was ex¬ 
tensively noticed, and much talked about. The editor 
of the magazine received so many letters asking for 
another paper that Mr. Stockton wrote the second 
one ; and as there was still a clamor for more, he, after 
a little time, wrote others of the series. Some time 
later they were collected in a book. For those in¬ 
terested in Pomona I will add that, while the girl was 
an actual personage, with all the characteristics given 
her by her chronicler, the woman Pomona was a de¬ 
velopment in Mr. Stockton’s mind of the girl as he 
imagined she would become$ for the original passed 
out of our lives while still a girl. 

“ Rudder Grange ” was Mr. Stockton’s first book for 
adult readers, and a good deal of comment has been 
made upon the fact that he had reached middle life 
when it was published. His biographers and critics 
assume that he was utterly unknown at that time, and 
that he suddenly jumped into favor, and they natu¬ 
rally draw the inference that he had until then vainly 
attempted to get before the public. This is all a mis¬ 
apprehension of the facts. It will be seen from what 
I have previously stated that at this time he was al¬ 
ready well known as a juvenile writer, and not only 
had no difficulty in getting his articles printed, but 
editors and publishers were asking him for stories. 
He had made but few slight attempts to obtain a 
larger audience. That he confined himself for so long 
a time to juvenile literature can be easily accounted 
for. For one thing, it grew out of his regular work 
of constantly catering to the young and thinking of 
them. Then, again, editorial work makes urgent de- 
196 


OF MR. STOCKTON 


mands upon time and strength, and until freed from 
it he had not the leisure or inclination to fashion 
stories for more exacting and critical readers. Per¬ 
haps, too, he was slow in recognizing his possibilities. 
Certain it is that the public were not slow to recog¬ 
nize him. He did, however, experience difficulties 
in getting the collected papers of '' Rudder Grange ” 
published in book form. I will quote his own ac¬ 
count, which is interesting as showing how slow he 
was to appreciate the fact that the public would gladly 
accept the writings of a humorist: 

“The discovery that humorous compositions could 
be used in journals other than those professedly comic 
marked a new era in my work. Periodicals especially 
devoted to wit and humor were very scarce in those 
days, and as this sort of writing came naturally to me, 
it was difficult, until the advent of 'Puck/ to find a 
medium of publication for writings of this nature. I 
contributed a good deal to this paper, but it was only 
partly satisfactory, for articles which make up a comic 
paper must be terse and short, and I wanted to write 
humorous tales which should be as long as ordinary 
magazine stories. I had good reason for my opinion 
of the gravity of the situation, for the editor of a 
prominent magazine declined a humorous story (after¬ 
wards very popular) which I had sent him, on the 
ground that the traditions of magazines forbade the 
publication of stories entirely humorous. Therefore, 
when I found an editor at last who actually wished 
me to write humorous stories, I was truly rejoiced. 
My first venture in this line was 'Rudder Grange. 7 
And, after all, I had difficulty in getting the series 
published in book form. Two publishers would have 
197 


A MEMORIAL SKETCH 


nothing to do with them, assuring me that although 
the papers were well enough for a magazine, a thing 
of ephemeral nature, the book-reading public would 
not care for them. The third publisher to whom I 
applied issued the work and found the venture satis¬ 
factory.” 

The “book-reading public ” cared so much for this 
book that it would not remain satisfied with it alone. 
Again and again it demanded of the author more 
about Pomona, Euphemia, and Jonas. Hence the 
“Rudder Grangers Abroad ” and “Pomona’s Travels.” 

The most famous of Mr. Stockton’s stories, “The 
Lady or the Tiger ? ” was written to be read before a 
literary society of which he was a member. It caused 
such an interesting discussion in the society that he 
published it in the “Century Magazine.” It had no 
especial announcement there, nor was it heralded in 
any way, but it took the public by storm, and sur¬ 
prised both the editor and the author. All the world 
must love a puzzle, for in an amazingly short time the 
little story had made the circuit of the world. De¬ 
bating societies everywhere seized upon it as a topic ; 
it was translated into nearly all languages; society 
people discussed it at their dinners; plainer people 
argued it at their firesides; numerous letters were 
sent to nearly every periodical in the country; and 
public readers were expounding it to their audiences. 
It interested heathen and Christian alike ; for an Eng¬ 
lish friend told Mr. Stockton that in India he had 
heard a group of Hindoo men gravely debating the 
problem. Of course a mass of letters came pouring in 
upon the author. 

A singular thing about this story has been the re- 
198 


OF MR. STOCKTON 


vival of interest in it that has occurred from time to 
time. Although written many years ago, it continued 
to excite the interest of younger generations $ for, 
after an interval of silence on the subject of greater 
or less duration, suddenly, without apparent cause, 
numerous letters in relation to it would appear on the 
author’s table, and “solutions” would be printed in 
the newspapers. This ebb and flow continued up to 
the last. Mr. Stockton made no attempt to answer 
the question he had raised. 

We both spent much time in the South at different 
periods. The dramatic and unconsciously humorous 
side of the negroes pleased his fancy. He walked and 
talked with them, saw them in their homes, at their 
“meetin’s,” and in the fields. He has drawn with an 
affectionate hand the genial, companionable Southern 
negro as he is—or rather as he was, for the type is 
rapidly passing away. Soon there will be no more 
of these “old-time darkies.” They would be by 
the world forgot had they not been embalmed in 
literature by Mr. Stockton and the best Southern 
writers. 

There is one other notable characteristic that should 
be referred to in writing of Mr. Stockton’s stories— 
the machines and appliances he invented as parts of 
them. They are very numerous and ingenious. USTo 
matter how extraordinary might be the work in hand, 
the machine to accomplish the end was made on 
strictly scientific principles, to accomplish that exact 
piece of work. It would seem that if he had not been 
an inventor of plots he might have been an inventor 
of instruments. This idea is sustained by the fact 
that he had been a wood-engraver only a short time 
199 


A MEMORIAL SKETCH 


when he invented and patented a double graver which 
cuts two parallel lines at the same time. It is some¬ 
what strange that more than one of these extraordi¬ 
nary machines has since been exploited by scientists 
and explorers without the least suspicion on their 
part that the enterprising romancer had thought of 
them first. Notable among these may be named the 
idea of going to the north pole under the ice, the one 
that the centre of the earth is an immense crystal 
(“Great Stone of Sardis”), and the actual attempt to 
manufacture a gun similar to the Peace Compeller in 
“The Great War Syndicate.” 

In all of Mr. Stockton’s novels there were char¬ 
acters taken from real persons who perhaps would 
not recognize themselves in the peculiar circum¬ 
stances in which he placed them. In the crowd of 
purely imaginative beings one could easily recognize 
certain types modified and altered. In “The Casting 
Away of Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine” he intro¬ 
duced two delightful old ladies whom he knew, and 
who were never surprised at anything that might 
happen. Whatever emergency arose, they took it as 
a matter of course and prepared to meet it. Mr. 
Stockton amused himself at their expense by writing 
this story. He was not at first interested in the Du- 
santes, and had no intention of ever saying anything 
further about them. When there was a demand for 
knowledge of the Dusantes Mr. Stockton did not heed 
it. He was opposed to writing sequels. But when 
an author of distinction, whose work and friendship 
he highly valued, wrote to him that if he did not 
write something about the Dusantes, and what they 
said when they found the board money in the ginger- 
200 


OF MR. STOCKTON 


jar, he would do it himself, Mr. Stockton set himself 
to writing “The Dusantes.” 

I have been asked to give some account of the places 
in which Mr. Stockton’s stories and novels were writ¬ 
ten, and their environments. Some of the Southern 
stories were written in Virginia, and, now and then, 
a short story elsewhere, as suggested by the locality, 
but the most of his work was done under his own 
roof-tree. He loved his home $ it had to be a country 
home, and always had to have a garden. In the care 
of a garden and in driving he found his two greatest 
sources of recreation. 

I have mentioned Hutley, which lies in Hew Jersey, 
near Hew York. His dwelling there was a pretty 
little cottage, where he had a garden, some chickens, 
and a cow. This was his home in his editorial days, 
and here “Rudder Grange” was written. It was a 
rented place. The next home we owned. It stood 
at a greater distance from Hew York, at a place called 
Convent, half-way between Madison and Morristown, 
in Hew Jersey. Here we lived a number of years 
after Mr. Stockton gave up editorial work • and here 
the greater number of his tales were written. It was 
a much larger place than we had at Hutley, with more 
chickens, two cows, and a much larger garden. 

Mr. Stockton dictated his stories to a stenographer. 
His favorite spot for this in summer was a grove of 
large fir-trees near the house. Here, in the warm 
weather, he would lie in a hammock. His secretary 
would be near, with her writing materials and a book 
of her choosing. The book was for her own reading 
while Mr. Stockton was “thinking.” It annoyed him 
to know he was being “waited for.” He would think 
201 


A MEMORIAL SKETCH 


out pages of incidents, and scenes, and even whole 
conversations, before he began to dictate. After all 
had been arranged in his mind he dictated rapidly; 
but there were often long pauses, when the secretary 
could do a good deal of reading. In cold weather 
he had the secretary and an easy-chair in his study, 
where a fire of blazing logs added a glow to his 
fancies. 

We spent a part of every winter in a city, nearly 
always in New York, when the country and the gar¬ 
den and the driving ceased to be attractive. Mr. 
Stockton found much to interest him in city life, and 
especially in the intellectual social life he there en¬ 
joyed, where he had the opportunity of meeting men 
noted in various walks of life. For the scientist or 
the discoverer was of equal interest to him with one 
who had won distinction in his own line. He joined 
but two clubs, the Century and the Authors, but was 
devoted to both. A fellow-member of the Century 
Club wrote of him in an obituary : “It was but a dozen 
years ago that Frank R. Stockton entered the fel¬ 
lowship of the Century, in which he soon became ex¬ 
ceedingly at home, winning friends here, as he won 
them all over the land and in other lands, by the 
charm of his keen and kindly mind shining in all that 
he wrote and said. He had an extraordinary capacity 
for work and a rare talent for diversion, and the Cen¬ 
tury was honored by his well-earned fame, and for¬ 
tunate in its share in his ever fresh and varying 
companionship.” 

We spent three years in foreign travel. Mr. Stock- 
ton took keen pleasure in visiting places made mem¬ 
orable by historical, and especially literary, associa- 
202 


OF MR. STOCKTON 


tions, and was delighted to have the opportunity of 
enjoying all that is finest in art. But he disliked the 
travelling and frequent change necessary for this end. 
He was a lover—almost worshipper—of Charles Dick¬ 
ens, and took a boyish delight in all Dickens’s London. 
For him the people of Dickens’s imagination really 
lived in those houses, and moved through those streets, 
for they were more real to him than many great per¬ 
sonages who had actually moved and dwelt therein. 
Because of this intellectual interest, England and 
Scotland were to him the most interesting countries, 
though he loved the France of Dumas. 

I am now nearing the close of a life which had its 
trials and disappointments, its struggles with weak 
health and with unsatisfying labor. But these mostly 
came in the earlier years, and were met with courage, 
an ever fresh springing hope, and a buoyant spirit 
that would not be intimidated. On the whole, as one 
looks back through the long vista much more of good 
than of evil fell to his lot. His life had been full of 
interesting experiences, and one of, perhaps, unusual 
happiness. At the last there came to pass the fulfil¬ 
ment of a dream in which he had long indulged. He 
became the possessor of a beautiful estate containing 
what he most desired, and with surroundings and 
associations dear to his heart. 

He had enjoyed The Holt, his Hew Jersey home, 
and was much interested in improving it. His neigh¬ 
bors and friends there were valued companions. But 
in his heart there had always been a longing for a 
home, not suburban—a place in the real country, and 
with more land. Finally the time came when he felt 
that he could gratify this longing. He liked the 
203 


A MEMORIAL SKETCH 


Virginia climate, and decided to look for a place 
somewhere in that State, not far from the city of 
Washington. After rather a prolonged search, Clay- 
mont, in the Shenandoah Valley, won our hearts and 
ended our search. It had absolutely everything that 
Mr. Stockton coveted. He bought it at once and we 
moved into it as speedily as possible. 

Claymont is a handsome colonial residence. It lies 
near the historic old town of Charles Town, in West 
Virginia, near Harper’s Ferry. It is itself an historic 
place. The land was first owned by “the Father of 
his Country.” This great personage designed the 
house, with its main building, two cottages (or lodges), 
and courtyards, for his nephew Bushrod, to whom he 
had given the land. Through the wooded park runs 
the old road, now grass-grown, over which Braddock 
marched to his celebrated “defeat,” guided by the 
youthful George Washington, who had surveyed the 
whole region for Lord Fairfax. During the Civil War 
the place twice escaped destruction because it had 
once been the property of Washington. However, it 
was not so much for its historical associations, as for the 
place itself, that Mr. Stockton purchased it. From the 
main road to the house there is a drive of three quar¬ 
ters of a mile, through a park of great forest-trees and 
picturesque groups of rocks. On the opposite side of 
the house extends a wide, open lawn; and here and 
from the piazzas a noble view of the valley and the 
Blue Bidge Mountains is obtained. Besides the park 
and other grounds, there is a farm at Claymont of con¬ 
siderable size. Mr. Stockton, however, never cared 
for farming, except in so far as it enabled him to have 
horses and stock. But his soul delighted in the big 
204 


OF MR. STOCKTON 


old terraced garden of his West Virginia home. 
Compared with other gardens he had had, the new 
one was like a paradise to the common world. 

Mr. Stockton was permitted to enjoy this beautiful 
place only three years. They were years of such rare 
pleasure, however, that we can rejoice that he had so 
much joy crowded into so short a space of his life, and 
that he had it at its close. Truly life was never 
sweeter to him than at its end, and the world was 
never brighter to him than when he shut his eyes 
upon it. He was returning from a winter in Hew 
York to his beloved Claymont, in good health, and 
full of plans for the summer, and for his garden, when 
he was taken suddenly ill in Washington, and died 
three days later, on April 20 , 1902. 

Mr. Stockton passed away at a ripe age, sixty-eight 
years, and yet his death was a surprise to ns all. He 
had never been in better health, apparently ; his brain 
was as active as ever ; life was dear to him 5 he seemed 
much younger than he was. He had no wish to give 
up his work ; no thought of old age ; no mental decay. 
His last novels, his last short stories, showed no falling 
off. They were the equals of those written in younger 
years. Hor had he lost the public interest. He was 
always sure of an audience, and his work commanded 
a higher price at the last than ever before. His was 
truly a passing away. He gently glided from the 
homes he had loved to prepare here to one already 
prepared for him in heaven, unconscious that he was 
entering one more beautiful than even he had ever 
imagined. 

Mr. Stockton was the most lovable of men. He shed 
happiness all around him, not from conscious effort 
205 


A MEMORIAL SKETCH 


but out of his own bountiful and loving nature. His 
tender heart sympathized with the sad and unfortu¬ 
nate, but he never allowed sadness to be near, if it 
were possible to prevent it. He hated mourning and 
gloom. They seemed to paralyze him mentally until 
his bright spirit had again asserted itself and he re¬ 
covered his balance. He usually looked either upon 
the best or the humorous side of life. He won the 
love of every one who knew him—even that of readers 
who did not know him personally, as many letters 
testify. To his friends his loss is irreparable, for never 
again will they find his equal in such charming quali¬ 
ties of head and heart. 

This is not the place for a critical estimate of the 
work of Frank E. Stockton. His stories are, in great 
part, a reflex of himself. The bright outlook on life, 
the courageous spirit, the helpfulness, the sense of the 
comic rather than the tragic, the love of domestic life, 
the sweetness of pure affection live in his books as they 
lived in himself. He had not the heart to make his 
stories end unhappily. He knew there is much of the 
tragic in human lives, but he chose to ignore it as far 
as possible, and to walk in the pleasant ways which 
are numerous in this tangled world. There is much 
philosophy underlying a good deal that he wrote, but 
it has to be looked for ; it is not insistent, and is never 
morbid. He could not write an impure word, or ex¬ 
press an impure thought: for he belonged to the “pure 
in heart,’ 7 who, we are assured, “shall see God.” 

Marian E. Stockton. 


206 


A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST OF THE 
WRITINGS OF MR. STOCKTON 


/ 



A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST OF THE 
WRITINGS OF MR. STOCKTON 


1. A NORTHERN VOICE FOR THE DISSO¬ 

LUTION OF THE UNION. 8vo. [New 
York, printed for the author,] 1861. 

Apparently his first publication, unknown to all 
bibliographical writers. It was printed, it is said, 
in the spring of 1861, and is referred to as “an 
attempt to avert the impending conflict between 
the States by suggesting a form of compromise.” 
The title, as printed above, is taken from Sabin’s 
“Dictionary of Books relating to America,” where 
the date of the pamphlet is given as 1860, though 
[1861 ?] is suggested as a substitute date. In 1862 
appeared in Philadelphia the “Poems, with Auto¬ 
biographic and Other Notes ” of his half-brother, 
the Rev. Thomas Hewlings Stockton [1808-1868], 
a Methodist clergyman famous for his eloquence, 
chaplain to both houses of Congress successively. 
All but one of the woodcuts in this volume of 
poems were engraved by F. R. Stockton and signed 
by him with initials. 

2. TING-A-LING. Illustrated by E. B. Bensell. 

12mo, pp. iv-187. New York, Hurd & 
Houghton, 1870. (Juvenile.) 

209 


A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST 


Four original fairy tales, first printed in 1869 in 
“The Riverside Magazine.” In September, 1882, 
the book was reissued by Charles Scribner’s Sons, 
and is now known as “The Ting-a-Ling Tales.” 

3. ROUNDABOUT RAMBLES IN LANDS OF 

FACT AND FANCY. Illustrated. 4to, 
pp. iv-368. New York, Scribner, Armstrong 
& Co., 1872. (Juvenile.) 

4. THE HOME. WHERE IT SHOULD BE 

AND WHAT TO PUT IN IT. 12mo, pp. 
182. New York, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1872. 
Written in collaboration with Mrs. Stockton. 

5. WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 

A Book for Young People. Illustrated. 
12mo. New York, Dodd, Mead & Co., 1874. 

6. TALES OUT OF SCHOOL. Illustrated. 4to, 

pp. viii-325. New York, Scribner, Arm¬ 
strong & Co., 1875. (Juvenile.) 

7. RUDDER GRANGE. Illustrated. 12mo, pp. 

viii-292. New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 
1879. 

The first edition in book form of this humorous 
masterpiece appeared in April, 1879. The illus¬ 
trations used were from “Scribner’s Monthly,” 
where “Rudder Grange” was printed November, 
1874, “The Girl at Rudder Grange” July, 1875, 
“The New Rudder Grange” February, 1878, 
“Camping Out at Rudder Grange” May, 1878, 
“Pomona Takes the Helm at Rudder Grange” 
210 


A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST 


July, 1878, and “Pomona’s Bridal Trip” March, 
1879. In 1885 appeared the first issue of the book 
with the well-known illustrations by A. B. Frost. 

8. A JOLLY FELLOWSHIP. Illustrated. 12mo, 

pp. xii-298. Hew York, Charles Scribner’s 
Sons, 1880. (Juvenile.) 

9. THE FLOATING PRINCE AND OTHER 

FAIRY TALES. Illustrated. 4to, pp. viii- 
199. Hew York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 
1881. (Juvenile.) 

10. THE TRANSFERRED GHOST. 16mo, pp. 

[17.] Hew York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 
1884. 

The first tale in Yol II of “Stories by American 
Authors.” 

11. THE LADY OR THE TIGER? AND OTHER 

STORIES. 12mo, pp. vi-201. Hew York, 
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1884. 

“The Lady or the Tiger?” was first published in 
“The Century,” November, 1882. 

12. THE STORY OF VITEAIJ. Illustrated by R. 

B. Birch. 12mo, pp. viii-193. Hew York, 
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1884. (Juvenile.) 

13. THE CASTING AWAY OF MRS. LECKS 

AND MRS. ALESHIHE. 12mo, pp. 130. 
Hew York, The Century Co., [1886.] 

First printed in “The Century.” 

14. THE LATE MRS. HULL. 12mo, pp. iv-437. 

Hew York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1886. 

211 


V 


A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST 

15. THE CHRISTMAS WRECK ART) OTHER 

STORIES. 12mo, pp. vi-242. Hew York, 
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1886. 

Issued in September, 1886, as the “ Second Series ” 
of short stories by Stockton, the “ First Series,” 
issued at the same time, being “The Lady or the 
Tiger? and Other Stories” (a reissue of Ho. 11). 

16. THE HUHDREDTH MAH. 12mo, pp. ii-432. 

Hew York, The Century Co., [1887.] 

First printed in “The Century.” 

17. THE BEE-MAH OF ORH AHD OTHER 

FAHCIFUL TALES. 12mo, pp. iv-193. 
Hew York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1887. 

18. AMOS KILBRIGHT: HIS ADSCITITIOUS 

EXPERIEH CES, WITH OTHER STO¬ 
RIES. 12mo, pp. vi-146. Hew York, Charles 
Scribner’s Sons, 1888. 

“Amos Kilbright” first appeared in “America” 
April, 1888. 

19. THE DUSAHTES. 12mo, pp. 150. Hew York, 

The Century Co., [1888.] 

Sequel to “The Casting Away of Mrs. Leeks and 
Mrs. Aleshine.” First printed in “The Century.” 

20. PERSOHALLY COHDUCTED. Hlustrated by 

Pennell, Parsons, and others. Square 8vo, 
pp. x-240. Hew York, Charles Scribner’s 
Sons, 1889. (Juvenile.) 

21. THE GREAT WAR SYHDICATE. 12mo. 

Hew York, Peter F. Collier, [1889.] 

212 


1 


A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST 

22. THE STORIES OF THE THREE BURG¬ 

LARS. 12mo. Hew York, Dodd, Mead & 
Co., [1890.] 

23. ARDIS CLAVERDEH. 12mo, pp. ii-498. Hew 

York, Dodd, Mead & Co., [1890.] 

Reissued in 1894 by Charles Scribner’s Sons. 

24. THE MERRY CHAHTER. Illustrated. 12mo, 

pp. ii-192. Hew York, The Century Co., 
1890. 

First printed in “The Century.” 

25. THE HOUSE OF MARTHA. 12mo, pp. vi- 

375. Boston, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1891. 
First printed in “The Atlantic Monthly.” Re¬ 
issued in 1897 by Charles Scribner’s Sons. 

26. THE RUDDER GRAHGERS ABROAD AHD 

OTHER STORIES. 12mo, pp. vi-195. Hew 
York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1891. 

27. THE SQUIRREL IHH. Illustrated. 12mo, 

pp. x-222. Hew York, The Century Co., 1891. 
First printed in “The Century.” 

28. ELEVEH POSSIBLE CASES. 12mo. Hew 

York, Cassell Publishing Co., [1891.] 
Published anonymously, with other stories. 

29. THE CLOCKS OF ROHDAIHE AHD OTHER 

STORIES. Illustrated by Blashfield, Birch, 
and others. Square 8vo., pp. x-171. Hew 
York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1892. 

30. THE WATCHMAKER’S WIFE AHD OTHER 

STORIES. 12mo, pp. vi-225. Hew York, 
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1893. 

213 


A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST 


31. FANCIFUL TALES. Edited with Notes for 

Schools by Julia E. Langworthy. With an 
Introduction by Mary E. Burt. 12mo, pp. 
xiv-135. New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 

1894. (Juvenile.) 

Selected chiefly from “The Bee-Man of Orn and 
Other Stories.” 

32. POMONA’S TEAYELS. A Series of Letters to 

the Mistress of Eudder Grange from her 
Former Handmaiden. Illustrated by A. B. 
Frost. 12mo, pp. xii-275. New York, 
Charles Scribner’s Sons, [1894.] 

33. THE AHYENTUEES OF CAPTAIN HOEN. 

12mo, pp. viii-404. New York, Charles Scrib¬ 
ner’s Sons, 1895. 

34. A CHOSEN FEW. Short Stories. With an 

Etched Portrait by Bicknell. 16mo, pp. viii- 
240. New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 

1895. 

These tales were selected by the author as being 
representative of his most characteristic work. 

35. MES. CLIFF’S YACHT. Illustrated by A. 

Forestier. 12mo, pp. viii-314. New York, 
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1896. 

First printed in “The Cosmopolitan.” The illus¬ 
trations did not appear in the magazine. 

36. STOEIES OF NEW JEESEY. 12mo, pp. 254. 

New York, American Book Co., 1896. 

Issued the same year by D. Appleton and Com¬ 
pany under the title of “New Jersey: From the 
Discovery of Scheyichbi to Eecent Times.” 

214 


A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST 


37. A STORY TELLER’S PACK. Illustrated by 

Newell, Smedley, Small and others. 12mo, 
pp. x-380. New York, Charles Scribner’s 
Sons, 1897. 

38. CAPTAIN CHAP; OR, THE ROLLING 

STONES. Illustrated by Charles H. Ste¬ 
phens. 12mo, pp. 298. Philadelphia, J. B. 
Lippincott Co., 1897. 

Issued serially in 1882. 

39. THE GIRL AT COBHURST. 12mo, pp. viii- 

408. New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 
1898. 

40. THE GREAT STONE OF SARDIS. Illus¬ 

trated by Newell. 8vo, pp. vii-230. New 
York, Harper & Bros., 1898. 

41. BUCCANEERS AND PIRATES OF OUR 

COAST. Illustrated by G. Yarian and B. 
West Clinedinst. 12mo, pp. vi-325. New 
York, The Macmillan Co., 1898. 

42. THE ASSOCIATE HERMITS. Illustrated by 

Frost. 8vo., pp. iv-257. New York, Harper 
& Bros., 1899. 

43. THE VIZIER OF THE TWO-HORNED 

ALEXANDER. Illustrated by Birch. 
16mo, pp. vi-235. New York, The Century 
Co., 1899. 

First printed in “The Century.” 

44. THE YOUNG MASTER OF HYSON HALL. 

Illustrated by Virginia H. Davisson and C. H. 
Stephens. 12mo, pp. 287. Philadelphia, J. 
B. Lippincott Co., 1899. 

215 



A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST 

Issued serially in 1882 under the title of u Philip 
Berkeley; Or, The Master’s Gun.” 

45. A BICYCLE OF CATHAY. Hlustrated by 

Orson Lowell. 8vo., pp. vi-240. New York, 
Harper & Bros., 1900. 

46. AFIELD AND AFLOAT. Stories. Illustrated. 

12mo, pp. xiv-422. New York, Charles Scrib¬ 
ner’s Sons, 1900. 

47. NOVELS AND STORIES. Shenandoah Edi¬ 

tion. 23 Volumes, 8vo. New York, Charles 
Scribner’s Sons, 1899-1904. The only uni¬ 
form and complete edition of Mr. Stockton’s 
writings. 

48. KATE BONNET: THE ROMANCE OF A 

PIRATE’S DAUGHTER. 12mo, pp. viii- 
420. New York, D. Appleton and Company, 
1902. 

49. JOHN GAYTHER’S GARDEN AND THE 

STORIES TOLD THEREIN. Illustrated. 
12mo, pp. viii-365. New York, Charles 
Scribner’s Sons, 1902. 

50. THE CAPTAIN’S TOLL-GATE. With a 

Memoir, by Mrs. Stockton; an Etched Por¬ 
trait of the Author and Views of his Homes, 
and a Bibliographical List of his Writings. 
12mo, pp. xxxii-359. New York, D. Apple- 
ton and Company, 1903 

Large Paper Edition. Limited to 150 num¬ 
bered copies. Memoirs autographed by Mrs. 
Stockton. Portrait with Mr. Stockton’s auto¬ 
graph attached. 

216 

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